Sunday, February 5, 2023

Ugh, what hit me?

I spent a lot of last week in a fog.  It was a little better yesterday and today, but I could not get my brain to function on more than a minimal level while I was up and trying to do housework from about Wednesday through yesterday.  It was deeply unpleasant, as you can probably guess...

All I did was make two cups of coffee in the Keurig Wednesday morning.  Not even something I hadn't done before, but that was  Knocked me on my ass for the rest of the week.  

During that time, I did manage to get some things done, including a couple of blog posts that...honestly, were better than my brain could manage without help.  I'm pretty sure Someone took my brain fog and used it to transmit something that He wanted said.  

It's a good reminder that everything I have and am comes from Him, and that the gifts I have are from Him.  And that they need to be used.  

It was pretty clear, after all, in the parable of the talents: use what you've been given to better your life, don't just bury it.  

Now, I just have to figure out how to use what I've been given for the sake of my family a little better.  That's gonna take more than a little bit of thought: I am going to need to do some cataloguing of my abilities and looking for marketability. 

Friday, February 3, 2023

Might wanna rethink things, there, morons.

I'm gonna write this for the atheists out there.  The ones screeching about the "evils" permitted by the Judeo-Christian God.  

I want to draw to your attention, guys, how hard you've been working to destroy the culture of over a thousand years, one shaped by Christianity and based in the Mosaic laws laid out in the Bible.  It's been hard, and you've been working at it for over a hundred years, patting yourselves on the back that you're the smart ones...

You spent a hundred, hundred twenty years working to infiltrate the way we teach our children (lots of success, there), the way we socialize, the way we entertain ourselves during our leisure periods, everywhere.  You're in the stories, you run the stories.  You've taken over movies, TV, music, everything.  

You've infiltrated the churches.  I don't know how you managed that, given how much you profess to not believe in God in the first place, but you did it.  

Except.  You haven't succeeded.  Not really.  Not anywhere that culture had taken root and flourished.  

People have quit going to movies.  People have quit reading.  People have been quitting paying attention to your mouthpieces in the media.  People have been pulling their kids out of the schools and denying you access there.  

You...are flailing, trying harder to destroy things faster so that the Paradise of the Noble Savage can return to the face of the earth.  

What you fail to realize is that the savage is not, and never has been, noble.  Savages are just that: savage.  They live for the moment, and they destroy whatever they can't claim as theirs.  Savages enslave each other, savage each other.  

And they die young, of horrible things that modern medicine could have treated, if only modern medicine weren't in your sights to destroy (and, indeed, have succeeded in destroying a lot of levels of).  

And you've still failed.  Because we are working against you.  

We are those who still follow the way of The Book.  Because we know who is behind the destruction of everything God has led us to create.  

Thing is, He does create.  He reshapes things that are good into things better.  He found, four thousand years ago, a few who could still hear Him, and He led them out of a civilization built on and by savages.  He led them out, and He spent hundreds of years reshaping the culture they'd held onto.  He led them to reject the savagery, the banality, the evil of the culture of the Savage.  

It took a lot of really nasty hardship.  It took a slow, steady approach.  It took redefining cultural practices, bit by bit.  Little by little.  Incremental improvements.  Building good habits to replace the bad.  

It took a couple hundred years of slavery.  Generations of being slaves, then being freed slaves, before He could push improvements for slaves.  And honestly, redefine what slavery is, and how slaves are to be treated.  

The Mosaic laws--the laws that God handed directly to Moses on Mount Sinai--defined an entire culture.  It had to: the culture that the Israelites hung onto through generations of slavery was a foundation, but only that, and what those people had was enough for slaves, but not enough for a free nation.  The instant Moses turned his back, they fell into the idolatry and worship of the wickedness they'd been surrounded by, because they only had the foundation, not the walls, not the habits to be better.  

It took a full generation wandering in the desert for Him to build that culture in His people.  Forty years going in circles in a desert that could be walked straight across in a couple of months, because of how long it took for the new habits, new patterns of thought to be built in a people who barely had a foundation to build on.  

Before that, slavery was...well.  It made what we've been told the black slaves our Southern states held look benevolent.  The slave owner could do literally anything to his slave, including starve them to death, work them to death, or just kill them on a whim.  It never ended.  Slavery from birth to death, with death being the respite for most.  

The Mosaic laws redefined slavery: the masters were given a list of things they could not do.  The period of slavery was defined, and the masters had to offer their slaves freedom every set period of years, and had to take them in as a family pet, basically, if they refused their freedom, to ensure that they weren't thrown out as useless when they couldn't work any more.  

 Those laws set the foundation for an entire culture that rejects slavery in all its institutions.  Our culture--the Judeo-Christian American culture--has fully rejected slavery, hard.  To the point we often don't recognize chattel slavery practiced in secret in front of us. 

And that...that is the culture you atheists are denying exists, and what you aim to destroy. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2023

The shape of the thing

This nation is under attack.  Harsh, unrelenting attack.

Actually, that's wrong.  It's not the nation.  It's the culture.  And it's the assumptions and values that underlie the culture.  

It's not new.  It's been under fairly constant attack from the very beginning.  It's gotten more blatant, and the attacks are really, really obvious, now.  Unfortunately, I think most people are misidentifying the assailant.  

No, it's not the left, not Marxists, not feminists, not any of the other -ists, villainous though they may be in and of themselves.  They're just the tool.  The weapon.  

The antagonist we're looking at is...

Well.  Better to illustrate.  

Thousands of years ago, there was a tiny group that heard a still, small voice.  That voice led them away from a land where raping and sacrificing children and animals to bestial, evil ideals in the hopes that they'd leave humanity alone was the norm.  Sound familiar, yet?  No?  

The god of money demanded the sacrifice of infants; today, he calls for the sacrifice of the unborn.  

The god of fertility demanded unrestrained sexuality; today, he calls for the same, and insists that it's "normal." 

Judaism was founded on a rejection of those ideals; Christianity built on that rejection, and on the culture He shaped with His rejection.  We, the United States of America, are a Christian nation.

God Himself
is a rejection of those ideals, and He calls for us to reject them.  To follow a better, healthier, more stable way.  We do not murder children.  We do not rape children.  We do not look at the things our neighbor has, get angry that he has them and we don't, and destroy his things; we work for our own.  We don't lie about each other to ruin each other's lives.  We don't murder each other for fun and profit (but we defend ourselves from those who do).  

The Bible is a guide, yes, but it's also an illustration of a deliberate, ongoing shaping of culture, and an illustration of what happens when people turn away from His ideals.  

The shape of the attack on the United States today is the same shape as the attacks humanity has undergone from day one, in the Garden.  Nihilism writ large.  It is lies, it is envy, it is destructive of all that is good and healthy.  

It is angry that we have that which it does not: a soul, and the freedom to choose, gifted to us by God.  With those things, we have creativity, we have the capacity for growth unparalleled in nature.  

And that which attacks us, attacks our culture...does not.  

And that which it cannot claim, cannot possess, it will attempt to destroy.  

Marxism imitates it, but is only a very, very pale shadow.  It's a handy tool, though, because it's not obviously the same as every other attack.  And it's had more success as a tool, a lever, a pry bar, in the last hundred years than anything else.  

But Marxism is only the tool.  It's not the antagonist.  

We the people, the nation, the culture need to recognize the antagonist.  And we need to reject it, its so-called culture, its "normal," and its ideology.  

Refuse to participate in what it wants.  

Turn your back on it, and turn to He who wants what's best for us all.  

Monday, January 23, 2023

Long *month*.

I have had something going on every week, so far this month.  Kids started back to school (and the school didn't put their schedules up until the day before...), then imp had a three-month followup for his focus pills (had grown an inch and a half since the previous one), and I had a dentist's appointment for a deep cleaning the same week (hygienist did half the job, and it took almost two hours).  Last week, I had a visit with my endocrinologist.  This week, I'll have the rest of the dental cleaning done.  

I also got Having a Pint put up for publication at the beginning of the month...first book out in almost three years.  I gotta do better than that, seriously.  I'm working on it, I promise. 

Honestly, I've finally been gaining some traction on the writing--I've got The Schrodinger Paradox almost finished (and the first two parts have been looked at by a couple of beta readers).  And Certified Public Assassin is about half done, I think.  

Right now, February looks a little lighter, but only on the outside-the-house commitments.  I have a lot of writing to do.  

And a lot of small projects on the house.  

In the meantime...have some entertainment: the first chapter of Having a Pint.  Remember, this is the second book in The Liquid Diet Chronicles.  It should make sense, even if you haven't read Bite Sized

What Gets Guido Out of Carpet?

I’d tried setting my alarm, on a whim, a bit before sunset.  I woke to music. 

At sunset. 

My alarm had been going off for half an hour, and it hadn’t worked to wake me up.  I sighed, sitting up in my bed—my actual, real bed, in my actual, real apartment built into the basement, rather than a mattress on a dresser in a closet—and scrubbed both hands over my face, then let them fall into my lap.  I guessed I’d just have to keep...aging...if I wanted to wake early.

My name is Meg.  I’ve been a vampire for a bit more than twenty years.    

My stomach gurgled, and I sighed.  Clearly, I’d be going hunting tonight, despite the sheer amount of work I had to do. 

My client list had...expanded.  And most of the new clients I had were paying me a lot, even by the small percentages I charged.  I’d already recouped the cost of remodeling the basement to create the apartment, the new storm shelter buried in the ground just steps from the back door, and part of the cost of repairs to the rest of the house.  So, yeah—I had a lot to do, and I was going to have to put it off to go hunt. 

I was just getting out of the shower when I was startled by a crash.  Sounded like somebody kicked the front door in.  Pounding steps running down the hall—those didn’t sound like Andi—a scream in the kitchen, and a gunshot (which came through the ceiling in my bedroom and killed my clock-radio).  Loud, angry, male voice cursing in a foreign language.  Sounded like Spanish, at first, but wasn’t. 

Two sets of footsteps, one heavy, the other lighter and stumbling, went from the kitchen to my office/library. 

I sighed, annoyed, then deliberately quit breathing.  I moved quickly and quietly up my steps and through my door, closing it behind me without a sound. 

That front door had a really cold breath, and the water on my bare skin damn near flash-froze.  Northern Kansas was really not the place to have the winter wind hitting your wet skin.  I kept moving, darting into my office to get out of the draft. 

There was a guy in a rumpled, cheap, brown suit rifling through my filing cabinet with one hand while pointing a small pistol in Andi’s general direction with the other.  Not a small gun, after all, I realized as I examined the situation—it was a full-sized double-stack something—his hands were just massive.  Wide.  He wasn’t a small man, I realized as I snuck up on him.  I wouldn’t be able to reach both his hand with the gun and the back of his head, I realized—I’d have to grab just above his elbow and just shove his arm up until I could get control of the rest of him.

His back was to me, so I took a quick breath and winked at Andi.  Her eyes widened as I vanished again, and she relaxed. 

“Where’s the money, you stupid bitch?” he snarled.  “I want the money.” 

What money?” she said, exasperated. 

“This is the money-laundering place my ex-boss used—I want the money,” he snarled. 

This.  This is what I got for not being picky about my clients. 

Italian food delivered on a busy night. 

I stepped up, grabbed his gun arm and wrenched it up toward the ceiling as he fired.  I took a breath and grabbed the short little ponytail at the back of his head, and jumped, swarming up his back like a monkey until I could reach his neck.  And higher on his gun arm, but not his hand, yet—guy had gorilla arms, not just the shoulders.  Andi fled the room.

His suit was polyester.  His shirt was rough cotton.  He wasn’t wearing a tie.  Colors popped richer as I fed.  I let go of his back with my legs as he sagged to his knees, then carefully took him the rest of the way down to the floor.  I let his arm slide through my hand until I could crush his hand around the gun.  The bones popping as they broke were loud in my ears.  He was so warm.  And I was warming quickly, despite the cold air from outside rushing in through my broken front door.

Andi rushed back in with a robe.  “Don’t kill him,” she said quickly. 

I got the gun out of his mangled hand, and tossed it aside.  I disengaged from feeding, slapping my now-free hand over the bite over his carotid artery, pinching the holes shut, careful to keep him from bleeding out before I wanted him to.  I wasn’t quick enough, and it sprayed everywhere.  And left a puddle—a growing one, since it was still leaking—under his neck.  I rolled my eyes and sighed, licking the wound mostly closed until I could get back to him.

I really should have expected her to come back.  I mean, she came back when I rescued her from a would-be rapist in a dark alley, despite her inability to deal with violence.  It was one of the main reasons I’d invited her to be my housemate in the first place.  Why wouldn’t she come back in, in a place where she felt safe?  

I groaned and let her help me into the robe, one arm at a time. Even holding him down with only one arm and focusing on letting Andi help me into a robe, I didn’t have any trouble holding the guy still without any effort, despite his feeble attempts to get me off of his back.  Shock and terror did wonderful things to my food—made it harder for food to fight back, that’s for sure.  I sighed again and sealed the wound the rest of the way for as long as the conversation took.  And groaned in exasperation as he squirmed, smearing the mess on my rug.  “Why?”

“We can call the police,” she said.  “Get him hauled off to jail.”

I whined a bit, leaning my forehead against the back of his shoulders.  If I ate the guy, I wouldn’t have to stop working to eat for potentially the rest of the week.  He also wouldn’t be doing this again.  Ever.  But I needed a better reason than that for Andi.  “And then what?” I asked.  “Who’s your boss?” I asked the guy I’d been eating. 

“I ain’t telling you shit, you unnatural bitch,” he gasped weakly. 

“Yes, you will,” I said, exerting myself a little to overcome whatever willpower he might have.  It was easy.  He didn’t have much of a mind to overcome.

“Rizzoli,” he mumbled.  “Leo Rizzoli.”

“One of my first investments clients,” I said, looking back up at Andi for a moment.  “You know.  One of the ones that I was pretty sure was mafia when I accepted his business, because I didn’t have a choice.  After I was attacked and turned.”

“Oh,” she said weakly.  “One of those.”

I leaned in to whisper to my breakfast, “That money you were looking for?  Wasn’t ever here.  It’s all tied up in investments.  Electrons.  Ones and zeros.” 

I gave him a couple of seconds to absorb that information, then conked his head on the floor, knocking him out.  Then I looked up at Andi.  “I can’t call the cops on him for breaking and entering,” I said.  “I’d be arrested right along with his boss.” 

Andi huffed.  “Fine.  Go ahead and eat him, then.  What are we going to do with the body?  And the gun?  And the blood in the carpet?  And how are we going to explain the repairs?”

“Now, see, the blood in the rug is the only part I’m really mad about,” I said, looking down.  “I love this rug.  And it might be ruined.  The rest is easily handled.”

Andi huffed, throwing her hands in the air.  “I’m going back to my supper, then.  Call me if you need help moving the body.”

I snorted, hauling Guido to his feet and hefting him over my shoulders.  It wasn’t hard—he was more awkward than heavy, for me—and over-the-shoulder was easier than other ways to carry something like him.  I did end up with my robe twisted a bit.  “I’m going back to my breakfast, then,” I snarked in return.  I followed her out into the hall, intending to go out to the utility room and its cement floor.  The cold made me gasp, and got her attention.

She glared at me from the kitchen door.  “You are not eating him in the kitchen,” she said flatly.  “That’s nasty.  I don’t want to be cleaning up excrement from the floor.”

“No, I’m hauling my meal out on the back porch before I eat.  Then, I’ll set the leftovers out on the steps to freeze for easier transport,” I said.  “The reason I didn’t drag him out there in the first place was because I didn’t want holes in the ceiling the whole way there.”

She blinked.  “Okay.  Sensible.  Too bad you couldn’t have drug him off your rug first.”

I rolled my eyes.  “One, he’d have shot you if I’d tried.  Two, he did manage to shoot the ceiling, so he was prepared to shoot you.  Three, there wouldn’t be any blood on the rug if you hadn’t interrupted me, since you didn’t have a really good reason.”

The mook over my shoulder twitched and moaned, clapping his hand over where I’d bitten him.  He snapped awake, and struggled a little.   “Cut that out,” I said irritably.  “I only sealed your neck up a little.  If I drop you, it’ll come back open, you’ll bleed out in the hall, I’ll have a bigger mess to clean up in more places, and I won’t get to finish my breakfast.”

“Please, lady,” he whined as he made the connection, “I ain’t done nothing to hurt you—don’t...”

I snorted as I moved down the hall, into the utility room.  I’d move the rest of the way out onto the roofed-over but not walled-in part of the porch, but cold pulls blood toward the body’s core, and makes it harder for me to get all of it.  Besides, out on the porch, there were snow drifts nearly up to my hips, and I was still only in a robe.  “You kicked in my front door,” I said.  “You shot my clock in the basement, in the course of threatening my housemate, threatened my housemate, then shot my ceiling when I put a stop to it.”

“It wasn’t personal, I swear,” he wailed. 

I sighed, dumping him into the snow.  “Yes, it was,” I said, manhandling him around until I could resume my breakfast.  “If I hadn’t been dealing with your boss, you wouldn’t be here.  That means it was personal.  Just not against me.  And I’m going to bill your former boss for it, and make him come pick up your corpse.”


I did not feel like dressing up to work, tonight.  Not after the way my evening started.  Yeah, I was no longer hungry, but I did not like being attacked.  And this was the first time I’d actually been shot at. 

Well, shot towards, anyway.  He hadn’t been shooting at me.  Nor at Andi, if my guess was correct—the shot in the hall that took out my alarm clock in the basement was a threat, not a serious attempt.

I dug out a pair of flannel lined jeans, big, fluffy slipper socks, a cami-top and a very soft and thick flannel shirt and dressed quickly.  Guido was freezing into an easy-to-transport fetal wad; I was just freezing. 

I went back upstairs after getting dressed to find the front door propped shut.  I squatted down to look at the damage, and sighed.  The door was cracked, the door plate ripped out of the facing, and kicked to the side where nobody would step on it.  The door and door facing weren’t repairable.  Everything would have to be replaced altogether.

Andi called, “I’ll be calling the guy that did the work downstairs tomorrow; what do you want me to tell him?”

That...was a good question.  I sighed, rubbing both temples with my index and middle fingers, and padded into my office.  Andi was on her hands and knees around the blood-spot, dabbing at it with paper towels.  She had my lined office trash can right next to her, already full of bloody paper where she’d gotten the worst of the blood soaked up, and she had a spray bottle full of something clear next to her knees.  “Um...what?” I asked stupidly. 

“I wasn’t thinking when I told you to not kill him,” she said, glancing up at me.  “Kinda shook, ya know?  I really hate hurting people.  Even when they’re trying to hurt me.  It’s why I’m not a cop.  Anyway.  So, if I made you make the mess, it’s my mess, and I’ll clean it up.”

“Okay, tell me what you’re doing,” I said. 

“I looked up getting blood out of a wool rug online while I finished my supper,” she said, “and it looks pretty easy—spray water, and dab it up.  Well, it’s easier before it dries, at least,” she said, eyeing the rug dubiously.  “I think I’ll be able to get most of it like this.  There wasn’t a whole lot soaked in, there—it was still sort of sitting on top of the fibers.  You will probably need new curtains, though,” she pointed out, jerking her chin.

I turned.  And groaned. 

Yes, I would be needing new curtains.  The heavy drapes didn’t show it as bad, but they would after the blood dried brown and stained the burgundy.  Damn it, I’d liked those curtains.  They’d coordinated with the burgundy in the rug.  The translucent netting curtains...the spray had run.  They looked worse than the heavy burgundy drapes.  And they hadn’t stopped the spray from hitting the glass.

“Don’t worry—I’ll clean the windows tomorrow.  I’ve got the day scheduled off.”  Andi sprayed the rug, and blotted the spot.  It came up pinkish, rather than the arterial spray red that decorated the paper towels in the trash and the curtains. 

“Burn the paper towels and those curtains for me, please,” I said mildly.  “I’ve got a trash burn barrel outside.  It’s pretty obvious.”

“I’ve got some old records that are scanned into my system and need to be shredded or burned,” Andi said.  “Mind if I do those, too?”

“It’d be helpful,” I admitted. 

The night was just started, and I was already emotionally exhausted.  This.  This is why I don’t eat where I live.  Why I hunt elsewhere. 

Cleanup, when it’s necessary, is a nightmare. 

Friday, January 20, 2023

Freakin' lovely

 So.  I've had some issues, recently.  Tylenol's been making me kind of queasy (and since it causes liver damage in too much quantity/too long of a time taking it, and liver damage's first sign is queasy...) so I quit taking it.  I've been having some issues with heartburn, too.  So I also quit taking Aleve.  

Joint pain levels...increased a little.  Not much.  Maybe half a step.  It is, in short, nowhere near as bad as I was thinking it would be.

In other words, neither Tylenol, nor Aleve were helping much to begin with.  

So I went looking for why.  

I found out.  

For people who have Fibromyalgia or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, the pain involved is not responsive to either straight analgesics or to NSAIDs.  It's not quite nerve pain, but not quite not, either.  

I guess I'll just save the Aleve for when I stand up, something goes snap somewhere, and a joint swells up like an angry toad.  

And use compression gloves for the joint pain in my knuckles.

Sunday, January 15, 2023

Prior planning and priorities...

Went up to visit my mom with one kid yesterday.  Just the pixie--the imp had a lego club meeting thing in the city library.  

They've squeezed six cats and two humans into a 400 sq ft space that's been expanded by flooring and sheet-rocking half of the attic.  That is, by the way, the only way it can be defined as a two bedroom space, as well.  Even if there's not really a safe exit from that attic bedroom, in case of fire. 

I love my family very much, but I can't think about their situation very often.  I'd offered to help them get out of that place in the past--or even just my sister--and have been turned down.  "We're waiting on God's time."  Or "God will tell us when it's time to move."  

Okay.  Fine.  Never mind that you're sitting on the roof peak, the water's at your waist, and you just waved off the helicopter.  That's their choices, and I don't get a vote. Never mind that I think He has been telling them to move for almost a decade and a half, now.  Ever since Grandma passed. 

I love my family.  I do.  But they're also a spectacular example to my children of "this is how you fuck your own life up."  I spend a lot of time explaining to the kids exactly what choices Granny made to land her (and my sister) where they are, and what choices they'd need to make to get out.  And I lead them through why we, Odysseus and I, make the choices we do, even when another choice would be more fun.  

It's a difference of looking at short-term vs. long-term.  

It's also a difference of priorities.  

Mom was talking about needing this, that, or the other for the house--furniture, or small appliances.  I wasn't paying attention.  She doesn't need what she thinks she does, she only wants it.  What she needs, if she's going to stay there where she is, is a new air conditioner.  She doesn't think her old one will make it through another year (even though it seemed to be cooling and dehumidifying things just fine last summer).  

I have things I would like, too, but it's all going to have to wait.  I would like a recliner that isn't electric, isn't half-worn-out, isn't too big for my frame, and coordinates with my living room.  I'd like a bread machine capable of doing gluten free bread (my old one I let go didn't).  

I'm not doing any of that because first priority is get our savings back up.  We've got insurance coming up in April, and tuition toward the end of July.  

And since I am not my mother, I'm not going to buy the things I want to, then wonder why I don't have enough and panic when the bills come due. 

I'm working on teaching the kids to do likewise. Because I don't want them fucking their lives up like my family's elder generation did.  If they fuck their lives up, I want them to do it in a way weird enough I had no clue it was possible to do it that way. 

Tuesday, January 10, 2023 taking a *break.*

So.  Last weekend, I took a deep breath and figured out exactly what I needed to do to get the finished book up.  And then I did it.  It wasn't exactly intuitive, but it wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be.  

It's done, now, and that's a load off.  And yes, it's moving.  Thanks to an absolutely awesome lady. Sarah Hoyt.  Go read her stuff, if you haven't yet.  

So, yesterday, I did get some revising done.  Not a huge amount, since I was working on that and a whole lot of other stuff, but I managed.  I got a few chapters revised in my science fiction project*--like half of the first part.  I got more done today, but ran up against some mathing that needs to be done before I can continue.  

Can I just mention I hate math?  I'm not bad at your standard, everybody-uses-it-every-day type stuff (budgeting, figuring unit costs, balancing bank accounts, messing about with resizing recipes, etc).  I am NOT good at anything more complex than that.  Orbital mechanics?  Right out.  But I can handwave that away.  

I don't know, yet, about figuring out transmission lag from set distances...or what those distances might be, in the first place.  

So that's set aside until the kids go to bed tonight and I get a chance to do some research.  

I got some writing done on a new short story for my current, working collection.  Around 1200 words on it, with a solid idea of where it might go.  

And...I found the music that Molly the assassin likes.  Got 2K words written in about an hour and a half...and had to stop because I had to go get the kids from school (and because my hands were killing me).  

My hands are still killing me.   

*The Schrodinger Paradox--still strongly considering publishing in parts, Kindle only, then putting out a hardback...