Learning to Differentiate

Sometimes I am amazed at the manipulative abilities of people.

You find a lot of this online. People who in real life would be laughed out of the room for expressing their opinions somehow gain a strange credibility in the cyber world. It's hard for me to take someone seriously who pontificates hatred, whether in the real world or online. But, what truly amazes me, is how some of these people can manipulate public opinion with their ability to write.

For example: there's really not any way to justify racist behavior in the real world. In the real world, if you expound upon you racist points of view you usually either get your ass kicked or you're dismissed by the people who hear you as stupid and beyond redemption. But, you take that same person and slap them online and suddenly all sorts of whacked-out critters crawl from the woodwork and support them publicly. Why is that?

Is it because of the alleged anonymity online? That doesn't really work any more--I can find out a heck of a lot about a person from their IP address...and their blog...and their website.

What makes people comfortable enough online to try and manipulate other people?

Look at the recent election. Because of online bullshit, there are a whole lot of people who believe the new President is a Muslim and that the Governor of Alaska doesn't comprehend basic geography. Are you serious? What kills me is that there are people who call one of those rumors a lie but still beleive the other one. It makes no sense to me.

As a writer, I'm very sensitive to the power of words. It occurs to me that since the advent and explosion of the internet, that sensitivity has spread into sectors unseen before this time. It was easy to dismiss the KKK newspapers I found on the front lawn twenty years ago.

It's not as easy to dismiss some of the racial prejudice spread over the internet, especially when it's clothed beneath some other sort of rhetoric. It's imperative now that we, as internet users, learn to differentiate between thinly veiled agendas and the outer shell of acceptability that some people are using. We need a new subset of skills if we are to comprehend the ugliness that lies just beneath the surface of much that we find online these days.

Temptation of Asphodel Cover Art

Okay--I love cover art as a rule. It always makes the book seem more tangible to me when I finally get the cover art. I'm always excited to see it.

But this cover art is super-scrumptious fantabulously amazing cover art and I am in LOVE with it. Check it out:

Isn't that the BOMB? HUGE thanks to Renee' George, who did a bang up job with the artwork and to Celia Kyle, the art director at Aspen Mountain Press. Oh, and just in case you missed this at some point, here's the blurb:

Tamsen has learned to sacrifice everything as she plays the game of the gods, but as she nears the end of her quest everything changes again. The hunter becomes the hunted, the ally becomes the foe and behind it all lies the hand of a third, unknown god who tries to lure her from her destiny. Can she hold firm against the temptations that are thrown in her path, or will she fall into failure as generations of Elves have done before her? As the rumbling memory of an ancient war settles over the realm of Ansienne, Tamsen’s faith falters. When she is drawn into conflict with immortal enemies, she discovers that the line between obedience and temptation is much narrower than she thought. Tempation is dangerous; obedience can kill.

Yep, I'm just a little excited. Stay tuned for more details here and on my website Shoot The Muse!

I'm getting ready to post the prologue for Temptation of Asphodel on my website.

It's Travesty Time in Tennessee!

For as long as I can remember, Phil Fulmer has been at the University of Tennessee.

He was an offensive lineman when I went to my first football game at Neyland stadium at the age of five.

He was a graduate assistant when I went to a competition at UT when I was in elementary school.

When I was in high school, he was an assistant coach for the Vols.

When I was in college, he was the offensive coordinator.

The first time I used my alumni tickets, he was the newly crowned head coach of the mighty Volunteers and we loved him for it.

College football has been one of my greatest loves since I was a child. Nothing was a bigger treat than driving to Neyland Stadium on Saturday morning, one of thousands of orange-painted cars on their way to eat, drink and be merry before the game. Nothing was more fun than sitting on the deck of one of the boats in the Volunteer Navy as you rounded the bend and saw Neyland sitting like a jewel against the backdrop of Knoxville and the Smoky mountains. Nothing was more exciting than sitting in that stadium while 110,000 people screamed out Rocky Top at the top of their lungs in support of their team.

And for every game I've ever attended at the University of Tennessee, Phil Fulmer has been on the sidelines. He was there for four hundred plus games--can you imagine that? He's been involved with the university for FORTY years--the Joe Pa of the Southeastern Conference with a .752 all time winning percentage, five SEC title game appearances, two SEC titles and one BCS national title in a year that the Vols were supposed to be rebuilding in. It was just thirteen months ago that he led his team into the SEC title game, losing to eventual national champion LSU.

But now, the greed of the UT athletic department, its AD and the President of the university has driven out the icon that gave his life to the Tennessee Volunteers. After forty years, he's been run out of town on a rail.

How sad.

I watched his press conference yesterday and wept for the pain of a good man, a man who lives and breathes and sleeps for the young men he guides. I felt a moment of fierce joy because of the team's support of their coach, and I cheered when, as one, they rose to their feet, turned their back on the AD and marched out of the room. One young man shouted, "He ain't got nothing to say to us!" as they left.

And you know what? He doesn't. How do you explain to an athlete that you got rid of an iconic coach because greed is more important than integrity, that victory will sacrifice loyalty and titles are more important than philosophy. Athletic director Mike Hamilton has sorely miscalculated during this fiasco, sacrificing the pride of one of the winningest coaches in college football history on the altar of competition. There is nothing he can say to those young men, for whom loyalty is a virtue preached every day at practice.

For that matter, there is very little he can say to me.

Coach Fulmer, you were kind to me when I was young. You remembered my face and name when you saw me by the side of the road for the Vols Walk three years ago. You've given me the greatest football memories in my life.

Godspeed to you, Coach. I just wanted you to know that at least in this subsection of the Volunteer Nation, there's a bright spot of Tennessee Orange in Ohio that will never forgive the university for what they've done to you.

And as for you, Tennessee football players, it's time for you to suck it up and win out for the Coach. Here's your chance to say something to Mike Hamilton about what loyalty can bring to the University of Tennessee.

Temptation of Asphodel Book Trailer

Twenty eight days and counting. I guess it's time for you guys to get a load of this:

The Challenges of Co-Writing

You guys know I'm a loner. What else could I be cranking out the word counts I do every day?

Don't answer that. I know I don't have a life.

At any rate, for the past couple of weeks I've been working on a project with a Canadian writer--Rob Graham, another Aspen Mountain Press author who writes really really outstanding erotica.

Really really outstanding erotica.

But I digress. We came up with the idea to co-author a book. I'll admit that at first I was skeptical. I mean--come on! Who in their right mind wants to spend part of their day in my imagination, right? Well, the gods love him, apparently Rob didn't have much of a problem with that. It took us about half an hour to decide that we would co-write a Georgian vampire story. he would write from the hero's POV and I would write from the heroine's.

And the story took off. Ever have one of those stories that just WOULD NOT SHUT UP? We've got one. The characters are complex and interesting, the historical atmosphere of the setting is addictive, and for some reason this thing has taken on a life of its own. I'd venture to guess we're already about halfway through the first draft--and it WILL be a novel--in fourteen days. I'll keep you guys posted on how it's going.

If you guys want to drop a line to Rob and comisserate with him on the horrible punishment he's currently enduring because he's working with me, you can find him on his blog at http://romanticheretic.blogspot.com/ .

The poor dear. Rob has several books available through AMP and Phaze--I just got done reading his Gillian's Place and its wonderful. You should go check it out.

By the way, the countdown clock for Temptation will be going up this weekend. *grin* We're getting close to time for a new Asphodel book release.

American Writers too Insular and Isolated Says Head of Nobel Prize Committee

Well. Doesn't take much to get me riled, does it?

http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D93H89QO0&show_article=1

STOCKHOLM, Sweden (AP) - Bad news for American writers hoping for a Nobel
Prize next week: the top member of the award jury believes the United States
is too insular and ignorant to compete with Europe when it comes to great
writing.

Counters the head of the U.S. National Book Foundation: "Put him in
touch with me, and I'll send him a reading list."

As the Swedish Academy enters final deliberations for this year's award, permanent secretary Horace Engdahl said it's no coincidence that most winners are European.
"Of course there is powerful literature in all big cultures, but you can't get away from
the fact that Europe still is the center of the literary world ... not the
United States," he told The Associated Press in an exclusive interview Tuesday.
He said the 16-member award jury has not selected this year's winner, and
dropped no hints about who was on the short list. Americans Philip Roth and Joyce
Carol Oates usually figure in speculation, but Engdahl wouldn't comment on
any names.

Speaking generally about American literature, however, he said
U.S. writers are "too sensitive to trends in their own mass culture," dragging
down the quality of their work.

"The U.S. is too isolated, too insular. They don't translate enough and don't really participate in the big dialogue of literature," Engdahl said. "That ignorance is restraining."

Color me mad.

Ignorance? Insular? Isolated? Just how in the Dickens (my bad--European writer) could anyone actually apply these words to American literature? For that matter, since when would an international committee created to honor acheivements in literature willingly employ an official who carries this view into the week of the Nobel voting system?

I have friends in Europe who have never been exposed to the joys of Hemingway or Steinbeck, never were pulled in by a Poe or Twain short story and didn't have the oportunity to study Hawthorne or Thoreau. Why is that? Is there some preconceived notion that American literature is, by the the very nature of its origin, somehow inferior to European? What of Asian literature or African literature? Are they insular too?

What are the odds of taking politics out of the arts? And, while we're at it--isn't the appreciation of art in all its forms primarily a subjective matter? Here's my take on it: all literature is, by its nature, international. There is no such thing as a continent that spawns *better* writers.

And there shouldn't be a leading executive of the Nobel Prize for Literature Committee who thinks there is either. Mr. Engdahl should be removed from his position now.

And I'll continue in my ignorance to write insular and isolated stories without the edifying bolster of a European nationality, thanks.

Oh No! Could it be...?

The carnies are pulling into the Fairgrounds.

For those of you who may have missed my previous carnie encounters, you might want to check them out. We get great carnies up here. I keep threatening to write the "Great American Carnie Novel," but no one believes me.

Yet.

Our local fair is the last in the State of Ohio, taking place every first week of October since the first Neanderthal taught the first mammoth to do tricks. For the past few years, I worked at the bar across the street from the Fairgrounds and we were inundated with carnies. As some of you know, I love me some carnies: they're great character studies, they always have good stories, they spend their money as fast as they get it and they tip well. (the last bit was the bartender in me) But this year, I get to look at carnies in a whole different light. I no longer have to deal with them; it's purely voluntary.

So yesterday, I did some snooping around. I was pleased to see that my favorite carnies were back, including the carnie czar and a couple of the middle-aged oddballs that always made me laugh. They recognized me immediately, calling me by the wrong name and asking if I remembered their preferred drink.

"Of course I do! You drink root beer and made me cook chicken wings daily. How could I forget you??? *subtext--butthead!* "

"You're the best bartender I've ever seen."

*note to self--missing another tooth but still wears the same 'cologne.' Wonder if Old Spice will ever go out of date?*

It's nice to be missed.

So, in order to keep you guys up-to-date on carnie activity in southern Ohio, I'm going to continue my carnie blog this year--as a customer of my former bar instead of an overworked and underhumored 'girl.' (I think some of them think that 'girl' really is my name) Maybe I'll get more carnie insight to share with you; perhaps I will start researching that "Great American Carnie Novel;" or, maybe, I'll just get drunk and type incoherently for a while. Either way, you'll be kept in the know about the great carnie tragedies and life events, as usual.

It's almost as fun as killing Elves...

Oh. Speaking of killing Elves, have I mentioned that The Asphodel Cycle 3:Temptation of Asphodel will be released in November? *grin* Not too much longer to wait, and I'll keep you amused with carnies at least for a couple of weeks.

See? That's not so bad, is it?

Writing Versus Editing

I love writing.

I loathe editing.

Let me clarify. I hate editing MY stuff. I write my first drafts very quickly--I can get to 100k in 20 days without a problem if I'm on a roll. When I'm writing my first draft, I don't worry about word choice or bad habits--I just plow on through. For example, I use LOTS of dialogue tags and adverbs--they set the characters' mood throughout a conversation--when I write a first draft. So, the main purpose of the second draft is to write most of them out. I replace them with actions or with internal dialogue. Probably, in the long run, I strike about 90 % of them during the course of the second draft. Then on the third draft, I discover that I cut some needlessly or that I left the wrong ones in.

From that point on, it's a juggling act.

I was editing an manuscript for another writer the past couple of weeks and I found myself commenting, "You need to find some other action for theses characters other than "he looked and smiled." or "she glanced away and sighed" or "he nodded his head and frowned."" Then when I went back to my manuscript every single instance where I had done that glared at me from the page. So I went back through and cut most of those.

Even notice in your writing that you have a pet phrase or word? Mine is 'suddenly.' After a thorough analysis of the 'suddenlys' in my manuscript, I determined that I'd used the word 1800 times in a 120k manuscript and of those 1698 of them were placed where the action wasn't really sudden. Out came the red pen, out went the suddenlys.

No matter what anyone says, editing is the most important part of writing. Sure, the imagination needed to create fiction is vital as are the personalities you give your characters. But in the long run, the editing is what will take your work where it needs to go. Without it, your novel has virtually no chance of success with either agents or publishers. So no matter how much you hate it, you an't avoid it. I sent back a round of first edits to an author a few months ago where the entire right-hand margin of the manuscript were covered top to bottom with little red balloons. Great story; no editing.

So the moral of this story is: you know how all the submission guidelines tell you to make sure that your manuscript is clean? Believe them. Eliminate all those pet phrases and grammatical errors and misspelled words and send them as perfect a product as you can. No one will recognize your genius if you send them sloppy work.

Learn to love the red pen--it is your friend. Trust me.

Politics! and then...

...REAL politics.

I'm excited about politics out there in the world beyond my office. There's a bit of zest these days,with either our first person of color or our first woman breaching the good ol' boy network in the Executive branch of our federal government. This is a great thing--infinitely preferable than the status quo--no matter HOW it shakes out! After all, at last the so-called minorities of the US are going to have a voice in the highest office of the land. We will have an advocate, a representative and all that entails. Just please, puh-LEEZE--

--let's not fuck all that up with trying to see which party is being more racist or more sexist, shall we?

This is politics, people, not a tea party. Neither party is discriminatory. Get over it.

So why not enjoy the run? Chuck the hysterical vitriol to the wayside and let BOTH voices be heard. What the hell? It could be fun in the long run.

Which brings me to REAL politics.

Real politics happen every day--interpersonally, if you will. We are, all of us, doing political work for ourselves every single day of our lives. Ever suck up to a boss? Politics. Ever finagle your way into a position that you weren't quite ready for? Politics.

Exactly.

Now then, I've let it be known fairly regularly that I am not a political person. (Main reason why that Pol Sci knowledge sits on the shelf a lot of the time too.) I'm too outspoken; I call things as I see them. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, that doesn't go over too well. It's much better for me to sit at my desk in my home day after day than to venture out to inflict my ideology upon others.

Occasionally, my online rambles interfere with that most noble intention. As a matter of fact, I realized today that I have never...not once...discussed politics on this blog. And, save for the plea above I never will. But I will discuss interpersonal politics for a moment if I may and then we can move on to something more important in the next blog post.

Interpersonal relationships are difficult to build on the web. As many cruisers have discovered to their chagrin, it's only too easy to 'fall in love' with someone's words online only to find that other person has the most heinous halitosis or the most hideous body odor they've ever encountered. The same goes for message boards or public forums. You may think that you're completely free to exress your opinion and find you're not, or vice versa for that matter. You can couch your words in such a way that people see right past your message, or they can just choose to overlook it. And in either case, it's hard to call--because you DON'T know why someone would be offended or because you went out of your way to avoid being offensive or whatever justifications you make to yourself.

But here's the ultimate test: go back the day after and read what YOU wrote. Ignore the vitrolic responses of other people--don't even read them. Just read YOUR words. Then ask yourself if they say precisely what you mean for them to say.

If, at the end of the day, you can stand behind your words then you expressed exactly what you meant to. If you find that your words, thoughts, sentiments, or feelings were not adequately conveyed you might owe some other folks out there in cyberland a few apologies. Now, I've been know to eat humble pie with salt and apologize for my words many times in the past. For one thing, as a writer I consider it my responsibility to take charge of my words and own the consequences that arise from them. *shrug* Only fair--my bad, right? So if I go out on a tangent and hurt people's feelings, I will always apologize if I am in the wrong--and even, sometimes when I wasn't the original cause but was partially responsible for a conflagration.

But I'm not always wrong. If I'm concerned enough to stick up for something, I'll damn well stick up for it. One thing I will NOT do is back down on it. I may give up the dissenters as a lost cause and move on, but I will not back down from my original conviction.

So, no. I won't back down this time either. I may consider the situation there a lost cause. But, sorry--not backing down. Nice try though.

The last time I checked, everyone's opinion counted for something--whether it's the hotbed of partisan politics in the States or how, on a non-partisan forum people should have equal and fair treatment regardless of what their voice is. But then again, I could be wrong. I've been known to be wrong before.

Stubborn, too.

Back to Blogging Again

So I have been chastised into blogging again.

It's not that I don't like blogging--I do. It's just that in my seven day array of 18 hour days, I have to give up something to ease my schedule. I like thinking about my blog entries before I write them and...well...unfortunately, I haven't been able to think as of late. I've been doing a lot of editing, and my head is full of other people's characters WHILE finishing the final draft of Asphodel 3.

Oh. Haven't I told you? The Asphodel Cycle 3: Temptation of Asphodel will be released THIS FALL. This October 27th, to be precise. *grin*

Surprise!

Should be fun, I'm thinking.

The great thing about editing is how much my writing has improved. I'm a lot harder on my manuscripts that I was before, which means that I'm eliminationg all of my bad writer habits --like adverbs and commas--that I used to death before. This is a good thing. Hopefully, this will make MY edits a lot easier. I hope so. I even know how to format the darn thing correctly now. My editor should love it.

*I did it ALL for you Sandy!*

Here's another thought--have you ever noticed when a series gets more exciting as you go through it? Isn't it maddening when you get to the end of a book and you just want MORE. That's the way lots of fantasy series were for me--David Eddings' Belgariad, Anne McCaffrey's Dragonriders of Pern, Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel's Dart, JK Rowling's Harry Potter--all of them page turners to the very end that left you wanting...

...MORE.

That is my new goal. Hopefully I'll figure out how to do this before that final rejection makes me jump off the cliff across the street. We are starting to run short of agents.

But one day, I will find one. I promise.

Cleaning Memories

So the big move is underway.

Since I'm not allowed to pick anything up these days, my job is to pack the valuables and unpack them later. First day of valuables--books. Yeah, like that involved not picking anything up. I lifted a book on Restoration authors and literally cursed the name of the author. That book was HEAVY--not to mention the Norton Anthologies. Then I took it back, of course.

Yesterday's valuables? Family things. It's always sad for me to pack them away, even if it's just for a trip to the next county like this move is. I was somewhat astounded this morning to realize that sometimes it's even sadder to unpack them.

My mother's nationalization flag. It's a small flag, from 1958--all fifty stars and thirteen stripes still bright although the gold paint on the little golden finial is faded. As I unpacked it and put it in its normal place over my desk, I wondered what my mother would say if she saw how cheaply that citizenship is held today. Chiding myself for my obsession with politics, I pulled the next item out of the box.

A crystal Vernus de Milo given to me by my grandmother--my French grandmother. The first time my mother took us (my brother and me) to France, we met our grandmother for the first time. Jeanne Herink was a woman who'd led a colorful life. Her husband, my grandfather Jean Herink, was a cafe' owner in Paris during WWII. When the Nazis marched into Paris, he opened his cafe' and its access to the cellars to the frantic flight of those leaving the city. He operated successfully in the French Underground until the Nazis evacuated just ahead of the Allied invasion. Apparently, he was suspected because the Nazis dragged him from his cafe' and executed him in the street before they left. His widow, my grandmother Jeanne, began an affair with a British officer--a lord,or so I was told. My mother hated that and resented her for it until the day she married my father. The day after, the two quarrelled over some teacups my mom wanted to bring to America and didn't speak for twenty years. Almost like us, in a way--that extended bitterness. The Venus de Milo, a little statuette that stands about 8" tall, was the first gift I ever received from her in her little apartment just across the river from the Eiffel Tower.

My grandfather's traveling clock. A small but heavy clock set into a heavy red leather case. I was told he'd brought it with him from Czechoslovakia as his family hurried west after the Bolshevik revolution in his native Russia. My mother was born there, in some town with an unpronouncable name that I only know from the turn of the century paperweight enscribed with its name. Both of them together, as they've always been, on the shelf with my Shakespeares.

A 19th century hand-sized Sonnets of the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barret Browning. She's my favorite poet from the Romantic era and this little book was the first thing I ever kept from my store inventory. It's faded and aged brown, although the little painted nosegay on the front still glows with light pastels, and I'm afraid to open it. It's in perfect condition, a time capsule from the 1890s and the ultimate temptation: it holds what I want, but I'm afraid to go get it.

The more I went through these things, the more I hung handles on them: Mom's things, Grandmere's things, Grandpere's things--rarely our things or my things. I've moved these things all over the country since my mother's death, revering them--almost sanctifying them because they were hers, or my family's--links back to people I can never see or touch again. These things I treasure, perhaps because they represent relationships or feelings or memories that I don't want to give up. A whole side of my family, and my daughters' heritage, lost save for the trinkets I preserve in my china cabinets and curios.

I think I'll write my family's story down for my kids. Then, one by one, I'll write the story of each little thing and pack it away with its history.

For them to find.

A Post of SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEs in Threes!

Okay--I get to have a brag post!

The first reviews of The Gift of Redemption are coming in. The first came from Coffee Time Romance, which sort of surprised me because they hadn't reviewed any of my work--including The Reckoning of Asphodel. Anyhoo, Regina has this to say about Redemption:

This has to be the best fantasy romance I have ever read. I could not put this book down until I had read the final page. While it is clearly the second book in a series, the author does such a good job of weaving background information into the storyline that the reader never feels cheated. Ms. Summers skillfully draws her readers into the book. The characters are so realistic that they appear to step from the pages. A devilishly wonderful book that I highly recommend to one and all!

You can read the entire review here.

I was really pleased with Regina's take on the book--she really seemed to get where the characters and the story were coming from and she'd never read the first book. So I had a little SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE! moment and went back to moving.

Which I hate.

Then this morning, I found a review in my inbox from Brianna at Bitten by Books:

I’m giving The Gift of Redemption 4 ½ tombstones. I loved revisiting the characters,and watching them grow – especially Tamsen – was a delight. Celina Summers really packs in the drama and love that was so evident in her first novel into this action-packed delight. There is a scene at the end that left me in tears. I would read the first book in the series, The Reckoning of Asphodel, before I picked this one up. The Reckoning of Asphodel is integral to understanding the beautiful world Summers has created.

How can you argue with a reviewer that admits my story made her cry???

Exactly. You can't.

So, I went outside and had a celebratory Coke and cigarette. While I was sitting on the deck, Emily the hummingbird buzzed by my head. She does this now whenever my husband Shannon or I are outside, buzzing our heads to let us know she's there and then looking at us for a few minutes like she's thankful--very cute. She hovered for a minute, her dark eyes glittering and contented again, and then went back to the feeder. I think she's coming along better now that her eggs have hatched. She's filling out a bit and starting to store it up for the impending trip to warmer climes. I suspect that it won't be long before she brings her babies by to inspect the deck, the flowers, the silly old Lab asleep in the sun, and teaches them how to drink from the feeder. I really hope that when this occurs, I'll be sitting out there also with my laptop handy.

If it does, then I'll tell you all about it.

Thanks for sharing my SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEs in threes. Emily says hi!

Casualty In The Great Hummingbird War of Hocking County

So we walked into the garage today and got a horrible shock.

Emily, my little hummingbird friend, was trapped in the garage. The poor little thing kept flying into the ceiling, bashing against the wall and the garage door, desperately trying to find a way out. She wouldn't settle on anything to rest; by the time we found her, she must have been bumping into things for hours. She was exhausted, and terrified.

We knew we had to get her out.

Now picture this: four adults, armed with brooms and ladders and plastic containers trying to herd a scared hummingbird into something so that we could take her outside and set her free. Not only was it probably funny to anyone that might have caught a glimpse of it, it was upsetting. Other hummingbirds lined the fence outside, calling to Emily as she darted from side to side, her little wings beating so slowly that it was like watching any other species of bird. She's particularly gaunt at the moment, having (apparently) hatched her eggs in the privacy of her woven spiderweb and lichen nest.

She's also spunky.

Twenty minutes passed, and finally my husband, perched precariously with one foot on the ladder and another on the top of the SUV, trapped her in an old plastic tub. When she settled down finally within it, Shannon slipped a plastic lid over the tub and we took Emily outside.

She was so tired that when we removed the lid, she just sat there looking at us. It's the closest I've ever been to a living hummingbird, and this one just stared at us from dulled eyes. The only life about her flashed from her emerald feathers--the ones on her back that I'd never seen when she darted at the feeder.

She stayed with us for five minutes, communing in her silent way with the two huge creatures that has brought her out into the open. She could smell the dusty scent of the grass, the fading aroma of the late lilies, the wind swirling gently around her feathers. She permitted me to touch her--one gentle stroke across her little back, then cocked her head and glanced over her shoulder with a quiet chirp.

Then she pushed off from the plastic container and rose into the sky. She didn't hover; she fled to the safety of the nearby woods, probably to check on her growing young ones.

An hour later, she visted our feeder again. She hovered near us, looking at us both, then perched on the little yellow flowers of the hummingbird feeder and drank her fill.

We saved a hummingbird today. What a great karmic experience! But, in the end, I realized that in some way Emily had given us a precious gift. For a few quiet moments, we earned this tiny creature's trust. And then she rose back onto the skies, and we knew that our efforts had been rewarded. She would live, and thrive, in the environment she was meant to enjoy.

And on one hot August day, we would live and thrive in the knowledge that we had done some good for the earth she lived on. It was a great feeling.

So...we drank vodka to celebrate.