Barb Caffrey's Blog

Writing the Elfyverse . . . and beyond

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What I Have Been Doing…

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Folks, I have not been very communicative lately. I realize that. I’ve been struggling with several things, including plantar fasciitis in my left heel that makes walking difficult and painful. (That’s saying something, as I already walk with a cane and deal with pain daily from my knees and back.) I’ve been saving my energy mostly for editing and writing.

Mind, I do have a few things to report in that area. I’ve been very cagey about it, but I am about done with a novel set in my friend and client Chris Nuttall’s Schooled in Magic universe. I have 105,000 words written, and that seems to be about the right length…now I have to go back and smooth out some rough edges, before I can send it to my four chosen readers (two that know the SIM universe, and two that don’t), to see what they think and what I need to do next.

You might be wondering who I’m writing about. I will tell you this much: it’s not about Emily. It’s not about Nanette (though that did tempt me). It’s instead about a minor character in Adam’s trilogy (starting with The Cunning Man) that I felt was getting a bit of a bad rap, whose story just kind of hit me in the head one day.

I hadn’t intended to write it, mind you. But after reading the third novel, where this character acts a whole lot better (and it did make sense), I had a whole monologue show up, in first person, that I wrote down. I showed it to Chris, and also showed it to another good friend who knows the SIM universe well, Leo Champion…they both said I had to keep going.

So, for the last three years, that’s what I’ve been doing. Sometimes progress has been slow. Sometimes it’s been in leaps and bounds. But I now have a viable story, what I hope will be the first of a trilogy of stories about this character.

After my four readers see it and tell me what they think, I’ll have a better idea as to a timeline as to when it may come out. My hope is for early fall, but we’ll see. I do intend to give “teaser” chapters when the time comes.

“But Barb,” I can hear you asking. “What about your three existing novels? What’s up with them? They’re not back out there yet.”

I have submitted them to a new publisher, and they are in that pipeline. So far, they haven’t been rejected yet (I asked about them a few days ago, hoping I wasn’t jogging the publisher’s elbow too much), but I do have a backup plan in case they are. I hope to have them back out again before the novel in Chris’s SIM universe comes out.

As far as other writing goes, Gail Sanders and I wrote a third story about Lance Corporal Marcus McGruder and Master Sergeant Peter Welmsley for an upcoming anthology (no, I won’t tell you exactly what the story is, or when it may come out, as it hasn’t been accepted yet and I’m superstitious that way). I have a backup plan for that, too…lately, my life seems all about “backup plans,” for lack of a better term.

For those of you wondering about my living situation, it’s in the same place as before. I’ll keep you posted, elsewise.

Other than that, I’ve been trying to help several rescue groups — some nearby, some not — to let folks know that good dogs are available in the various animal shelters. Many shelters waive fees for at-risk dogs (“at-risk” meaning they’re on the equivalent of doggie death row, or euthanasia), and most of the time the only reason these poor dogs are at-risk is because of overcrowding at the animal shelters.

This is the worst time of year for that, mind you. For whatever reason, dogs, cats, and other animals end up in the shelters far more often in the summer than any other time of the year, and they don’t deserve it.

I feel for these dogs (usually the cats are more easily placed, so I’m mentioning the dogs instead). They are kind-hearted, loving dogs, well-socialized, many of them get along with other dogs, with kids, some get along with cats, and the shelters notate which ones are especially good at taking treats gently from your hands or don’t pull on the leash.

They’ve done nothing to end up in the circumstances they’re in. They’ve just loved people, sometimes those who’ve let them down, and sometimes those who through no fault of theirs can no longer take care of them.

Being in the shelter is scary for them. They don’t know why they’re there.

I believe in lifelong pet ownership whenever possible. (Longtime readers of my blog know this.) My favorite dog ever, Trouble, was over seventeen when he died (he was a Shih Tzu mix of some sort, gray, black, and white). My mother’s little dog, Bratty, is now over seventeen, and is still as feisty as ever. (I hope Mom will have Bratty for quite some time yet, but of course you never know.) Mom’s dogs Floyd and Blackie were at least thirteen before they passed (Blackie was a bit bigger and a Cocker spaniel mix of some sort; Floyd was “genuine American mutt,” sweet, loving, but don’t trust him around pizza or seafood!), and the only dog I can recall of any she had dying early was Clyde, who was only six years old but had a neurological issue that caused paralysis, and the vets weren’t able to do anything to help him.

So, I see these young dogs — some are only a year or two old! — in the shelter, and my heart just cracks open for them. They could have decades left if they only find the right person, the right family, for them.

My friend Rosemary Edghill, who died recently, rescued Cavalier King Charles spaniels, especially the older ones. I’ve been doing a lot more dog rescuing work (sharing posts, discussing things with volunteers, and such) since she passed. I’m not sure why this is, except that I admired her, and wanted at least one thing I could do to help remember her by. I hope my efforts, small as they are, will do some good…and at least they can’t do harm.

I am not in a position where I can get a dog of my own. (More’s the pity.) But I can share when good dogs are available, and I’ve tried to do that lately, especially on my Facebook page. There are several excellent rescue places that are nearby, including It’s a Pittie Rescue and Chi-Town Pitties, that often feature wonderful dogs. The Chicago area shelters are full, too, as are the folks in Atlanta (I often share for them), and there are so many wonderful and amazing animals there that deserve their forever homes.

It’s something that can break your heart, if you let it, trying to rescue animals. But my motto is, do whatever you can, for as long as you can, and hope that your efforts will do some good.

That’s my motto overall. About writing, about music, about dog-rescuing, about friendship…help as you’re able, do whatever you can, and hope your efforts do some good even if you can’t see it.

Anyway, that’s what’s going on with me here in Chez Caffrey. What’s going on with you? Let me know in the comments.

Written by Barb Caffrey

August 3, 2026 at 10:06 am

Posted in Atlantean Union, heartbreaking stories, Heartwarming stories, in general, Informational Stuff, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Writing

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Just an Ordinary Day? Reflections on Grief

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I’ve now been without the love of my life, Michael B. Caffrey, for twenty-one years, nine months, and twenty-three days.

Every day, when I wake up, I think about how long it’s been. Sometimes it feels like forever, and sometimes it feels like I just saw him a minute ago. I’m fortunate, as I’ve said before, that I often feel his love around me, supporting me, giving me a reason to keep trying even on the difficult days.

This is one of them.

See, while Michael never would’ve celebrated it — and I would not have talked about it when he was alive except with my closest friends — this would’ve been his sixty-eighth birthday. He did not like to celebrate his birthday whatsoever, but he liked to celebrate every other day — the unBirthdays, if you will — especially after we found each other and married.

For him, a birthday was no different than any other day. He wasn’t interested in most celebrations. But he was happy to celebrate being with me, and I was happy to celebrate being with him on his natal day or any other day.

Michael was the most positive person I’ve ever known. He had faith, kindness, goodness — though he’d say he was “as pure as the driven slush,” mind you — was faithful, loyal, honorable, ethical, had a wicked sense of humor, and showed me how much he loved me every single day.

I waited a long time before I found him. As I’ve said before, he and I were both divorced when we met, and he pretty much said to himself (not to me, not then) that I was going to be the woman he married. But he didn’t want to scare me off, as he knew I was quite gun-shy by that point.

I don’t know how he got me to hear him. To trust that he was different, that he truly cared, that he would not betray me (not cheat, not lie, not steal, not any of that), to believe that just once, in this life, I had found a mental equal along with a spiritual, physical, and emotional one. But he did, and we had that amazing conversation for thirty-six hours — our first lengthy conversation, and the longest, but it wouldn’t be the last — around Christmas Day of 2001. Neither one of us wanted to go to bed, to leave our conversation, to stop talking, because I think we both feared it wouldn’t be real and it wouldn’t have happened if we went to sleep.

In fact, if I remember right, when I got up the next day, Michael left me an email with a subject line something like, “On Further Review…” So, I opened that email with a bit of trepidation, thinking he might’ve been trying to walk back what we’d discussed the previous evening and throughout the day and night again.

His first line, after saying something like, “Hi, beautiful woman of my dreams,” was this: “I take none of it back.”

This was the first time, and maybe the only time, I’d ever met someone who’d stand by his word. Where the words mattered as much as the actions. Where the dreams we had, that we’d never told anyone about, were safe to discuss. That our creativity could flower due to our deep and incredible connectedness to each other…I had no idea that someone could be this enthused about anything I wanted to do that was positive.

I mean, I’d write music, and he’d read it. He could read all clefs, too. I don’t know if he ever played an instrument, but he read music and understood it.

I’d write words, and he’d sit down with me, read them over, show me some stuff he was doing, I’d read that over…I think we both grew as writers and editors because of each other.

And the wide-ranging interests he had…he knew so much about so many different subjects, and he always wanted to learn more. He looked for deeper and richer experiences all the days of his life, did not suffer fools gladly (or at all), was ethical, principled, constantly made me laugh, was always learning, and was always so present in the moment. (I think that was due to his practice of Zen Buddhism.)

The bone-deep sincerity of him, along with his maturity, his wisdom, his serenity…it was and remains an incredibly attractive combination, one I’ve seen matched nowhere else, by no one else.

(Aside: While I do hope, now, to eventually meet another good man, long-time readers of my blog know this took me almost twelve years — twelve full years — after Michael died to admit I still wanted. It hasn’t happened since. But I know that Michael’s love for me was profound and he’d never want to stand in my way for any potential happiness. End aside.)

So, my grief has been profound for my wonderful, incredible, amazing, sexy, smart, funny, ethical, principled, and intelligent man, my Michael. The three days that are the hardest for me to bear are this one, our wedding anniversary (in June), and the day of his death in September. It’s hard to believe that such a huge presence, someone I still feel around me to the point I wake up and am immediately disappointed as Michael is still dead…well. It’s hard to believe I’ll never hold him in the circle of my arms again.

Grief comes in waves. Some days, it’s like a tsunami and all you can do is try to withstand it however you may, so you’re standing…albeit in a bunch of floating wreckage. Some days, it’s more bittersweet, because the good things that happened make you smile, and knowing that this astonishing person was your husband, is your husband still and always will be no matter what happens to our bodies after this life on Earth ends, outweighs anything else.

Mostly, though, I have a form of PTSD, something my last two counselors discussed with me. I saw Michael fall, behind me, with the first of his four heart attacks. (He was too far away for me to catch, and as I’ve said before here on my blog, I would’ve dislocated both arms had I tried. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve done anything to stop that from happening.) I heard his last words, which were “where’s my wife?” as I’d been sent up to our apartment to get the meds he took, as that potentially might save his life (the guy next door was a paramedic, and he said to do this; it made sense to me). I told him I’d be right back and for him to hold on…but when I got back down there, he was being loaded into the ambulance, no pulse, no breathing.

I knew what that was. Bad, bad, and more bad.

They kept trying, because he was only forty-six. He’d had no signs of this. He’d passed a cardiac stress test earlier in the year — a chemical stress test, granted, as he had significant arthritis in the form of chondromalacia. But he passed it.

The ambulance driver looked at me and asked if I was his daughter. (I can’t help it. Even now, after all the stress and strain of the last twenty-one-plus years, I still look considerably younger than my age.) I said, “No, I’m his wife. Now let’s get him to the hospital!”

After eighteen minutes, Michael’s vital signs returned. They still had some hope, though he did not wake up again. They could tell he was fighting very hard. He then had a second heart attack — out again for over ten minutes — and later, a third. By this time, I’d called my parents and my father was on the way from Wisconsin. (We lived in Iowa, then.) They took him to get a brain scan, to see if he still had electrical activity in his brain, and he did — in a non-standard place, but that happened for my Mom, years ago, after she had pneumonia so bad she went into an eight-day coma. I tried to have hope.

They sent me back home to take my own meds, including my blood pressure medicine. I went online (still dialup, back then) to let our friends know that Michael was dying.

Then I got the call to go back to the hospital. He’d had a fourth heart attack, and they were still doing compressions…his blood pressure fell to 30/10, and he had a pulse rate that was so low it almost wasn’t measurable. But he was trying, he was trying to live, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to leave me, we’d both waited so long to find each other…it didn’t seem fair, then, and it still doesn’t seem fair now.

I had to be the one to tell him that if he couldn’t come back as himself, without brain damage, which they thought was going to be likely even if he miraculously woke up from all those manual chest compressions, that he should go into eternity and that I’d try my best to never forget his love, never forget him, never forget what we had, and that I would always try to feel his love.

After thirty more minutes (by this time, my father had made it to the hospital and was there at my side), Michael died, just shy of 9 p.m.

I still see all of what happened in Technicolor (TM), and I can’t do anything other than witness it. I know how much Michael loved me. I know how much he wanted to be with me. I know he wanted to finish his stories and keep working on his other crafts (he was an artist, among his many talents). I know he wanted to hear me play in various bands (mostly concert bands, occasionally in jazz ensembles), to hear me practice, to read the music I composed, and to read the words I wrote, too. (I wrote poetry, too, and still occasionally do.)

Life has been very, very difficult for me since he died. I am not going to lie and say that it hasn’t been. I still try my hardest to hold any sort of positive thought (today, it was petting my Mom’s seventeen-year-old dog, Bratty), or to do anything that is life-affirming, honest, and real. I also do what I can to remember all of Michael — his goodness, his kindness, his serenity, his sense of humor and eternally questing mind, all of it — and not just the way he died.

It’s hard for me to believe, even now, that he is not with me in the flesh. I’d like to think if there are multiple universes (the physicists sure seem to believe it’s possible), that Michael perhaps did not die there, and that the iteration of me there with him is still blissfully happy.

Don’t get me wrong. We never made much money. Our lives were not easy, not separately, not even together. But they were much better, much richer, much more satisfying, because I knew he understood me and he knew I understood him. It was a never-ending series of wonders even on the horrid days, like when we were served with eviction papers when we still lived in San Francisco…even on the last day of his life, before he collapsed, Michael believed we’d find our way into a better situation if we only kept trying and kept our faith in ourselves and in the Goddess Herself (as both of us tended to see the Deity as female).

I’ve done what I can since he passed. I’ve kept his Atlantean Union universe alive, albeit in a different way than he’d envisioned. I’ve been fortunate there that my good friend, Gail Sanders, is a former Army Reservist (now retired), and knows things about the military I just don’t. (We have two stories available in Tales of the E4 Mafia and Tales of the E4 Mafia 2, and we hope to have a third coming out in a new anthology later this year.) So I’ve continued to write. My Elfyverse, which I wrote and conceived when Michael was alive, is still there, and I’ve written some short stories for the Fantastic Schools anthologies. I also have written more music, more poetry, made new friends, kept up with old friends, tried to be there for my family (and am still trying)…life goes on.

Is it what I want it to be? No.

Is it better than it would’ve been had Michael never entered my life? Yes.

Ultimately, what I tell myself every day is, I can only do my best. And my best means I remember the love, the caring, the honesty, the serenity, the bone-deep kindness, and yes, also the flaws (Michael absolutely adored being right, to name one, but I thought that completely understandable). My best means that I do not shirk from the difficult truths. My best means that I have to expect the best from myself, even on a bad day, even on a tough day…and my best means that I have to stay myself, my recognizable self, so that if Michael somehow could miraculously come back to life (I know he can’t), he’d recognize me instantly.

Grief is hard. I don’t enjoy it, to put it mildly. But if this is what I have to deal with due to finding the love of my life and getting a few good years with him before his sudden and unexpected passing, that’s just the price of admission.

I wish we’d had far more time. I wish Michael would’ve been able to write more stories and finish his own novels and write more in the Atlantean Union ‘verse on his own.

But I will never regret the time we did get. It was the highlight of my existence. And I honor it, all the days of my life.

Written by Barb Caffrey

July 14, 2026 at 7:38 pm

Posted in Atlantean Union, Books, Editing, Elfy, Elfyverse, friendship, heartbreaking stories, in general, love stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, romance, Widowhood, Writing

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Can Divorce Be Beneficial? My Thoughts

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Ten years ago, I wrote a blog about divorce that was well-received, and I decided to revisit it today for two reasons. One, we’ve got another celebrity divorce that’s in the news, that being between Jelly Roll and Bunnie XO. Two, as someone who’s been both previously divorced and, after blessedly finding and marrying the love of my life, widowed, I know there is life after both things…but most especially after divorce.

As the previous blog stated:

Yes, divorce is painful. But if you and your spouse do not understand each other, have grown apart, or worst of all, he’s brought another child into this world outside of your marriage (which my second unlamented ex-husband did), you need to be gone. It’s not good for you to stay. And if you have children, your children will see all your pain, all your anger, all your dysfunction, and start to model it for themselves in their own relationships…something you truly don’t want.

Mind you, divorce is not easy, which my previous blog also discussed:

My (first) divorce was brutal. I remember eating baby food, because nothing else would stay down. I saw my soon-to-be-ex-husband parading around town with the woman who became his second wife, and I could do nothing but swallow helpless rage. (It took me some time to realize that I was enraged, mind, because at first I was so saddened by all of this, and wondered how it could have ever come to pass.) I played in a group with my soon-to-be-ex-husband and his new girlfriend, the woman who became his second wife, and it sometimes was agonizing…yet I refused to give up the comfort of music, as I knew I needed it to help me somehow get past the pain.

When I was dealing with my first divorce in particular, I had no idea what life would bring. I was still quite young, thought I’d completely failed, and was very frustrated (to say the least). It was extremely depressing to deal with, to know that I’d picked someone who could do what my first ex-husband did. And it wasn’t much better, if at all, with my second ex-husband, as it was difficult, disturbing, frustrating, and quite awful to deal with.

The light at the end of the tunnel, though, as I said in the previous blog, was not an oncoming train:

I found Michael (or, as he would no doubt want to have it, he found me). And finding him, being with him, being married to him, was worth every other pain in my life, past and present. He understood me, he was creative and funny and helped me be my best self, and I did my best to give him all the support, encouragement, laughter and love that I could, too.

Because that is what love is.

So, if you are divorcing right now, try to avoid giving in to despair. Divorce gives you the opportunity to find someone who is truly right for the you-who-is right now, rather than continuing to fight the same old battles in the same old ways.

You have to see yourself as someone who’s survived something difficult, and have come out the other side even stronger, rather than as a failure. It took me a while to figure this out. But it’s absolutely essential for your peace of mind.

I want to say this, too: You don’t have to be bad people in every respect in order to divorce. My exes had good qualities, even if they weren’t good husbands. (I said in the previous blog that they mostly were shining examples of what not to do, and I stand by that.) I wouldn’t have married them at all if I hadn’t seen the good in them. All I could do, ultimately, was say, “Go with God” and hope they’re better husbands to their second wives.

Perhaps I needed them in my life, if only to say, “I don’t need that. But this quality, I liked.” Otherwise, maybe I wouldn’t have ever been able to recognize Michael’s sterling qualities, much less give him a chance to convince me to take a chance on a third marriage.

And that third marriage is really what defined my life in many ways. I’m glad I took that chance. (“Glad” is too neutral of a word, mind. Maybe I should use “ecstatic” instead?)

In the case of Jelly Roll and his wife Bunnie XO, they had a ten-year marriage that gave them much satisfaction at times and much pain at others. It’s possible they may reconcile. It’s also possible they never speak to each other again. I hope for their sake, though, that they can be amicable and always be friendly.

I don’t need to be a personal friend of theirs to know that.

Anyway, I know being friendly post-divorce is possible for some, though it wasn’t possible for me. Michael, my late husband, and his ex-wife were the best of friends. (In fact, I’m still in contact with her today. She’s a lovely person and is remarried to a very kind-hearted man.)

Finally, remember that we’re all just human beings. Some days are better than others. Some days are worse. But we contain both the best and worst in one package, and our lives are up to us.

For good or ill, our lives are up to us.

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 18, 2026 at 12:14 am

Posted in in general, Informational Stuff, love stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Public figures, Remembrance

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This Month’s Health Update, Etc.

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Folks, I’ve been asked to give an update about housing and such, so this blog is that answer.

Because of my health cratering, I haven’t been able to find a new apartment or place to live. In addition, the finances aren’t exactly there either. I’ve been able to keep my health from further going off the cliff than it already was, but I haven’t been able to regain much, if any, energy since I moved out of Dad’s house in late August.

The doctors have run a number of blood tests. They didn’t find much. They have no idea what’s causing this.

What I’m trying to do is to keep my head up, work to tolerance, write when I can, and find something good in every day no matter how lousy I feel otherwise. (Usually, it has to do with my mother’s dog, Bratty, AKA Ms. Brat. She’s a sweet little thing, and she makes me laugh daily.) Sunsets are good. Conversations with friends are good. The occasional visit to my friend who lives nearby is good. Talking with my sister is good. Stuff like that, along with of course talking with Mom daily and enjoying a few laughs with her when we can find something we both enjoy or appreciate, helps me to keep going.

Is this what I wanted when I moved out of Dad’s house? Absolutely not.

The problem is, I need a health miracle that I don’t possess in order to regain enough energy to do all that I’m doing now (what amounts to two full-time jobs; trust me), plus find an apartment, and then somehow be able to afford that apartment’s first and last month’s rent. I’m hanging on to the stuff in storage in the hopes I’ll need it again, but my health has been so very bad, I haven’t checked on the storage since October. (Yes, you read that right.)

Dad used to say that doctors are only practicing medicine, with the emphasis on practicing. I think there’s a certain element of that going on here. I don’t fit the mold, whatever the mold is, and thus they have no idea what’s causing this level of illness beyond a few things I was already treating (and have continued to treat).

I don’t know what the answers are, here. I hope that when I feel better, I’ll be able to live better, have more time to myself, etc.

The question I often think about is this: Would Michael want this, for me? And the answer is, “Of course he wouldn’t.” But he’d want me to do my best, which I am doing, and he’d tell me that slow and steady wins the race (whatever the race is), and that if I can’t do it today, I’ll do twice as much tomorrow. And I if I still can’t do it tomorrow, I’ll do three times as much the day after that, because that’s just how I am.

I miss my husband very, very much. But I try to keep those words in mind, and I do the best I can as I move on.

Oh, one more thing: My three novels are out on submission to a new publisher, which is why they haven’t come back out yet. If the new publisher decides against them, I will let you all know. (The covers are of course not available to the new publisher, but he knows that already.) Then, I will get them back up…and we’ll all go on from there.

I hope everyone else is doing as well as possible, and I also hope that you can find something good about every day no matter how frustrated you are, and no matter how frustrating the world seems to be on any given day. Life is short. We have to do our best, whatever our best is that day.

That’s all.

Written by Barb Caffrey

April 24, 2026 at 1:45 pm

Posted in in general, Informational Stuff, Michael B. Caffrey, Widowhood, Writing

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Mentor, Friend, and Superlative Writer, Always…Rosemary Edghill Has Died

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There are some sorts of blogs I don’t ever want to write, and this is one of them. But I must.

Earlier this week, Sharon Lee posted that Rosemary Edghill (who also wrote as eluki bes shahar and James Mallory, among other noms de plume) passed away. Sharon knew Rosemary far longer than I, and Rosemary’s widow knew how to contact Sharon to let everyone else know as best we could.

This is a huge loss.

Rosemary was my first writing mentor besides my late husband Michael, and she championed ELFY (later turned into two books, AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE and A LITTLE ELFY IN BIG TROUBLE) fiercely and well. My husband was also mentored by Rosemary, and Rosemary, upon Michael’s passing, paid for an online obituary in perpetuity (as far as I can tell) so people could pay their respects to his memory, something I greatly appreciated.

But to say that isn’t enough.

You see, Rosemary helped writers of all sorts. She also raised dogs, King Charles Cavalier spaniels, to be exact, and competed with them in agility and other things. Later in life, she rescued dogs, especially the aforesaid King Charles Cavalier spaniels, and was a firm believer in lifelong pet ownership. (Which makes sense to me, completely.) She had many different careers, including an editorial internship at Avon Books (I think this was a paid internship), and she taught me much of writing as well as editing (especially after Michael died, as Michael was himself a good editor), along with the whole business of publishing.

She had a huge presence, did Rosemary. Just seemed like one of those people who’d never die, because they are so vibrant, so full of life even when laid low (due to illness, a broken leg, or whatever), that you can’t imagine them being dead. It just seems unthinkable.

As Sharon Lee put it, Rosemary was brilliant and sometimes difficult. Maybe we all are, we writers. I’m not sure.

I do know that Rosemary and I butted heads once and only once, and due to that, we were estranged for several years. (I felt terrible about this, but I respected her wishes in this, figuring she’d seek me out again when she could.) She eventually re-established ties, and we never once talked about what had estranged us, possibly because there was no point in rehashing old things. (A few people who’ve known me for a long time know what this was, and why, but I see no point in bringing it up now except as an explanation of why Rosemary and I were estranged when I cared about her so much and she cared about me so much, too.)

I loved her writing, the way she used language, how she could write effortlessly in any genre, how fertile her mind and imagination were, how many different interests she had (and she seemed to be expert in all of them, a true rarity)…in many ways, I thought Rosemary was a polymath, of sorts.

Rosemary was also politically active, and raised money for liberal causes. I admired that, too. She knew I was part of the effort to recall then-Governor Scott Walker (R) back in 2011, and she respected that, even though we weren’t ultimately able to get Walker out. (He was indeed recalled, another election was held, but he won that election and was never replaced, finishing out his original term in the process.) She knew I tried not to be hypocritical, and thus if any Republicans were upset with their office-holders who could be recalled, I supported their right to recall said office-holders…though I also worked on behalf of one state senator, Bob Wirch, to successfully retain his seat (in the same manner as Walker had; he was recalled but won the new election and continued to serve in office).

She was complimentary of my efforts to let people know about LGBTQ issues (or as my niece would point out, more formally LGBTQIA) and was married herself to a woman of great worth and strength. (I never met Rosemary’s wife, don’t know her name, haven’t been introduced. But anyone who was married to Rosemary must be a woman of great worth and strength, as Rosemary just did not put up with fools whatsoever, and would not waste her time on anyone who wasn’t a phenomenal person.) While I am not on the whole LGBTQIA spectrum myself, I deeply respect it, partly because my late brother-in-law, Sam, was gay, and partly because I worked with a bunch of lesbian and bisexual women early in life, when I was about nineteen or twenty, and knew they were no different than I was, excepting that the bisexual women sometimes dated men or women, and that the lesbian women only dated other women. They were as worthy as I of love, care, understanding, concern, and whatever else comes with a true partnership, and that’s why I cared, long before it was fashionable, and very long before I even met Michael, much less knew anything about his brother Sam, about these issues.

Rosemary was one of the first to ever see my novel CHANGING FACES, and gave me several excellent comments. She also gave me a sell-quote for my first Elfy book, gave me encouragement at many times and in many places, recommended me to anthology editors as someone who could and would write a story competently and well…there’s not much more I can say, except that she also was kind and caring after Michael passed, even leaving a telephone message (possibly the only time I ever heard her voice, as we were not fortunate enough to meet in person, ever).

All of that is only scratching the surface of who Rosemary Edghill was. I know that. But I can’t help but at least do that much, to give you all some idea of the huge sense of loss I have now that Rosemary has passed on to whatever the next world is (or the Elysian Fields, or The Good Place TM).

I hope that Rosemary first was reunited with her loved ones, including all of her wonderful dogs. I then hope she and Michael settled down for a good gossip, maybe over some tea and shortbreads, as those were favorite things of Michael’s and I’m sure Rosemary would not have been adverse.

Rosemary wrote Regency romances, SF&F of all sorts, tie-in books, general fiction, and way too much else to list. Everything she ever wrote had value, worth, fun stuff, interesting situations, and fast-paced writing that always held my interest no matter how tired I was and no matter how much nonsense I’d had to deal with before I finally got a precious hour or two to read her books.

I will treasure her books, her writing, and her presence in my life forever.

I really wish she wasn’t gone. She was only 69. That seems too young, to my mind, these days…anyway, the SF&F community is in mourning, and I completely understand why.

All we can do now, though, is emulate her the best we can, and live our best lives, writing however often we’re able, as we may.

If you have memories of Rosemary, or wish to talk about this post, go ahead and leave a comment.

Written by Barb Caffrey

April 12, 2026 at 10:25 am

Posted in friendship, heartbreaking stories, in general, Informational Stuff, LGBT, Michael B. Caffrey, Rosemary Edghill, Writing

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Why My Novels Aren’t Currently Available…and What I Plan to Do About It (Plus an Update about the Housing Search)

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Folks, I had a few folks asking me lately, “Barb, what happened to your novels? Where are they? Why can’t I find them?”

The answer is, my former publisher, Twilight Times Books (TTB), has released the novels back to me. That means it is now up to me to republish them, independently. I have negotiated for the original covers (as I liked them) and it looks like I will have access to those. I’ll write some sort of forward and new afterword, I’m sure, too…but with everything else still in major flux, I just haven’t had the concentration I need to get everything in train.

My former publisher, Lida Quillen of TTB, has been great. I have the formatted files she used (a major help), along with other files for the covers, and now it’s just a matter of me getting a few hours of good-to-excellent concentration (so I can concentrate on writing a forward and an afterword and add that to the files, hoping I don’t manage to screw up the formatting in so doing) to get them back out there and available again.

So, for the moment, my three novels AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE (aka Elfy Book 1), A LITTLE ELFY IN BIG TROUBLE (aka Elfy Book 2), and CHANGING FACES (a gender-bending spiritual romance that’s been called “Freaky Friday on Acid” that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Elfy books) are unavailable.

I hope to have them back up and available by December 15, 2025. I’m saying this now, publicly, openly, just so you know I am working on it, and that I will find a way to get it done. (Without Lida’s helpfulness in getting me the files and putting me in touch with the cover artists, I wouldn’t have known what to do. I appreciate her willingness to help, as she didn’t have to do anything of the sort.)

While I have many short stories out there and still have the two first stories about Joey Maverick and the very first one about Peter Welmsley available (all three listed as co-written by Michael, my late husband, as these were originally his characters and much of what I had was stuff I’d expanded out a little bit), it is odd not to have my three novels available to purchase.

That will be rectified soon, no matter what, because it’s important that these novels be put back out there for my own peace of mind. I worked hard on these books, I believe they have worth and value, and it is imperative I get them back out there.

By the way, for those of you asking for a moving update…I’m in a holding pattern. I am on quite a few waiting lists for apartments, but there seems to be very little movement in the housing market right now, possibly because of the uncertainty regarding the economy. And the one day I did get a solid tip about an apartment, I wasn’t able to follow through with it due to health reasons. (It was only going to be shown for one day for two hours. I could not get there at that time. I felt bad I couldn’t get there.)

My stuff is mostly in storage and has been for a bit under three months. It’s safe, as the place I picked is reliable, and there are cameras there. The lock they gave me is hard for me to operate (I have tendinitis in both hands and wrists), so when I go there I have to make sure I have someone else with me to open and close the gate (when I went there once by myself, I ended up having to call my best friend’s husband to ask for help as he was one of the folks who helped me get stuff into storage in the first place). It’s like adding an extra obstacle to a course already full of them.

But I persevere, and do the best I can, and hope for better days ahead. Not just for me, either…for everyone I know, too, as life seems quite difficult for just about everyone right now.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 23, 2025 at 3:57 am

Posted in Elfy, Elfyverse, in general, Joey Maverick, Persistence, Writing

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Tom Brady Cloned His Favorite Dog, and I Have Thoughts…

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Folks, I’ve been wrestling with this issue for several days (in addition to trying to get rid of the most recent sinus infection, doing my best to make some progress in other areas, looking for apartments, etc.), and finally figured out now is the right time to start discussing it.

Tom Brady found a company that would clone his favorite dog, named Lua, partly because he’s got a lot of money, and partly because he adored his late dog. From what I’ve read, the company that did the cloning (Colossal Biosciences) did so starting from a blood sample from Lua taken before she passed. His new dog, Junie, is a clone of Lua. (Note that Brady is an investor in this company, too.)

But here’s the thing about clones: If you can’t duplicate the exact same nurturing environment, you probably won’t get the same personality as your former animal. They have the same DNA, yes, but just as identical twin human children can have radically different personalities, so can dogs, cats, parakeets, or in one case, a rare white bull.

(I don’t know for sure that parakeets have been cloned yet, but it appears that both dogs and cats have been. The white bull that was cloned turned out to be far meaner and much less friendly than the original bull, which disappointed the farmer who’d cloned him. But I digress.)

Even if you do duplicate the exact, same nurturing environment, there are still other factors that can play into personalities. There are so many different factors that go into making a person who they are, which also goes for every other animal on Earth. That’s why identical twins can have radically different personalities, even if raised by the same family. Nurture, nature, the type of environment…all of it matters, as do so many other factors that defy description.

But back to Brady’s dog for the moment.

Bluntly, a genetic duplicate is not the same dog. While it is an exact copy of the original, Junie can’t be Lua, just as Lua couldn’t be Junie. That’s why the owner of the white bull was disappointed in part; he wanted his original bull cloned because he was exceptionally mild-mannered and gentle. However, as I said earlier, the clone of that bull was meaner, very difficult to handle, and nothing like his progenitor.

Such situations have been raised by science fiction authors in the past, mind you. The one I’m the most familiar with is Lois McMaster Bujold’s cloned character Mark Vorkosigan, a younger clone of his brother, Miles. Mark had many things inflicted on him to make him an exact physical duplicate of Miles that didn’t need to happen (read the books BROTHERS IN ARMS and MIRROR DANCE for more information on that), as Miles was damaged in utero due to a failed assassination attempt on his parents, and that obviously didn’t happen to Mark. So, the original, Miles, was only four feet, nine inches because of what happened to him, whereas Mark was biologically retrofitted to look like Miles, but had far heavier bones and would’ve most likely been close to six feet tall (if not over it) had the awful people who illegally cloned him left him alone. (The torturous things done to Mark, if thought about too much, will make anyone sick.)

So, Mark and Miles are facially identical. Their personalities are radically different. They both learn over time to function as true brothers, partly because their mother, Cordelia, was raised in a society that understands how to deal with clones legally, honestly, and completely aboveboard. (Cordelia knows Mark didn’t ask for any of this, which is one of the reasons I love Cordelia so much as a character. But again, I digress.) Mark is quite a bit heavier than Miles is, again because he was not damaged in utero, and Mark learns to use his heavier frame (he frankly says he’s obese, for whatever it’s worth, whereas Miles is skinny and often looks emaciated due to various health woes) to his own advantage.

It’s because I know all of this is as true as Lois McMaster Bujold, a writer who has a strong grounding in science, could make it that I question Tom Brady’s reasoning here. It’s wonderful that he wanted Lua to somehow live on in a successor. But Junie is not Lua, and will not behave like Lua no matter what he wants unless he gets very, very lucky. (Think again about the farmer with his cloned white bull if you don’t believe me.)

We’ve known cloning animals is possible since Dolly the sheep got cloned in 1996. Sheep don’t show as obvious of personalities as a lot of animals (though they do have them), which may be why Dolly’s personality was never called into question. At that point, geneticists were happy to have finally cloned a sheep from an adult cell (as some other sheep had been cloned in a different way back in 1984), and as Dolly the clone was mild-mannered (as most sheep tend to be), that factor was not discussed much in media accounts.

What all of this amounts to, mind you, whether you’re talking about Junie, clone of Tom Brady’s beloved dog Lua, or the fictional Mark Vorkosigan, clone of Miles Vorkosigan, is that a genetic copy — a clone — may be identical from a genetic perspective, but it’s not going to be identical in every other way unless every other factor the original had been exposed to (or had happen to them) was replicated in full. Even then, it’s still unlikely, but theoretically possible, that you’ll get a dog or bull or parakeet or whatever that acts exactly like the original/originator.

Going back to Mark Vorkosigan’s story, he had some personality traits that were just like his progenitor’s, including high intelligence, adaptability, and being able to immerse himself in a role if need be. But he was far surlier, especially at first, as life dealt him a very bad hand (the retrofitting surgeries to cut him down from the height he should’ve had to the height Miles attained due to the damage in utero were nightmarish and horrific). Mark didn’t trust easily, to say the least, and he didn’t know why anyone would want to ever do anything nice for him. (Learning exactly who he is, and who he isn’t, is the main thrust of the novel MIRROR DANCE, which I highly recommend you read.) Over time, Mark becomes a financier and philanthropist (self-made), whereas Miles pursues the military and then later becomes an Imperial Auditor (using all of his skills for the best to solve various problems, roughly). Miles couldn’t do what Mark does, while Mark not only can’t do what Miles does, he has no interest in doing it either.

That’s because they’re both people. They can’t expect to be the same. They know they aren’t no matter how identical their DNA happens to be. Different experiences, different approaches to problems…which is very human and understandable.

Anyway, Tom Brady spent fifty thousand dollars to clone Lua. He got Junie out of it. I hope Junie will be a wonderful family pet, but I also hope that Brady and his family will realize Junie is not Lua, can never be Lua, doesn’t have Lua’s memories or experiences…only has Lua’s DNA, and as Junie matures more every year, her own personality and her own memories and her own experiences will shine through.

The upshot is, while I understand and sympathize with any pet lover who wants their beloved animal back, I think it’s better to go get an animal from the local shelter and adopt that animal than it is to clone your dog. You know full well that the new-to-you dog is not going to react in the same way as any of your other dogs, and you won’t be thrown off by how similar the cloned dog looks to the old…nor by behavior that you probably never saw out of your old dog either. The chance of confusion at how the cloned dog looks just like the old (but doesn’t act just like it) won’t apply, either, as you’ll be able to get to know your dog over time just as your dog is — warts and all, knocking the garbage over and all, chewing up shoes and all, and whatever other mischief the dog can come up with along with its more loveable cuddles, snuggles, and companionable walks.

So, what do you think about Tom Brady’s cloned dog? Or the thought of cloning in general? I’m interested to hear your thoughts.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 21, 2025 at 5:58 am

Posted in Criticism/critique, in general, Prescient observations, Public figures, Remembrance, Sports figures, Writing

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A Quick Update

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Hey, everyone. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get up a new blog, but I’ve been quite vexed with the housing search. When I was younger — at my first undergraduate school — it took about a month to find a place when nearly everything else was rented. But this search has gone way beyond that, especially as I started it in August…it’s well over three months, and I have yet to find a place to live that I can afford.

That said, I’ve also been battling my usual fall maladies of chronic sinus infections, general malaise, fibromyalgia flares/back problems, and of course the chronic depression I deal with daily. Being able to create helps me fight against all of that. But being in this situation works against being creative, as most of my energy is going toward either survival or finding a new place.

That said, for the moment I am still safe and staying with a family member. Later this month, if I still do not have a place, though, I’m not sure what will happen as the apartment complex here isn’t happy that I’ve been here so long without paying any rent to them. So this is the last month I can do that, though it may be possible for me to “reset the clock” by going to a hotel for a day or two. (Any longer than that, I can’t afford.)

As far as writing goes, I’ve been mostly stalled for all the reasons I gave above. As far as editing goes, I’m finally almost done with a lengthy edit — quite intense, lots of comments to make, and because it’s the last in a series, I have to make sure everything stays in good order. (This means I look stuff up. Nothing wrong with that. But any writer or editor worth anything will tell you what I’m saying right now: the work goes far more slowly if you’re having to do lots of cross-checks with previous books.) I believe I’ve done that, and it’s now just down to the final few things before it goes off to my client.

I am doing my best, in other words. Sometimes I get quite frustrated. (Actually, most of the time.) This is not what I’d hoped for, and not what my father wanted for me, and definitely not what anyone who knows me now and is still alive (including my family) wants either. Yet it’s where I am, and all I can do is my best with the circumstances I’ve got and go from there.

Tomorrow is Veteran’s Day in the US, as probably most of you know. My father was a Navy veteran, as was my late husband, Michael. I have cousins who’ve served, and many friends, along with an ex-husband (he was in the Army, back in the day). I respect people greatly who have served their country, and I appreciate what they’ve done to make this country a better place.

There’s still lots of upheaval going on around me because of governmental issues and strains, too. Everything seems to be in flux, not just me and my living situation.

I wonder sometimes if I am in the wrong place, doing the wrong things, and that I am so far off the track meant for my life (which was to be a college music teacher and performer before my poor health and finances got in the way), there’s no way for me to find my way back.

That said, I’ve done what I thought was best. I’ve helped people as I’m able and will continue to do that as long as I live. I’ve taught myself editing, and am good at it. I write, and always will write, whatever suits me: nonfiction, poetry, fiction, you name it, I can write it and probably have. I’ve used my musical talents in ways I hadn’t expected, but they have been used…and if my health gets any better, perhaps I’ll be able to use them again. (I’d still like to visit France and/or Spain someday, as that’s where classical alto saxophonists are most appreciated.)

So, while I’m battling depression, as I said before, I am still alive. So long as I’m alive, there’s at least some hope for better. I am looking for that hope, while also doing what I can to find my own, independent place to live. (It’s easier to help others when you have a place that’s truly yours where you can retreat to, as needed. A sanctum santorum, in other words. I haven’t had that now in any way, shape, or form for over three months.)

I battle the thought that I’ve failed (all of my novels right now need to be republished, as the rights have reverted back to me and are no longer for sale; unfortunately that’s on the back burner unless/until I can find a place of my own). I battle the thought that Michael might be unhappy with me (though really, I can’t see why he would be; he always thought I was too hard on myself, and this is probably just another of those times). I battle the thought that my maturity and experience may not matter in a world filled with so much automation and the flirtations with AI. I also battle my health, as anyone who’s spent any time here knows…but all I can do is my best.

This is my mantra right now: All I can do is my best.

Maybe that’s how it is always for everyone. But this sense of it being crisis city all the time is hard to live with, and I hope it’ll be alleviated soon. (No disrespect to my family member who took me in, either. That was not easy and I appreciate it greatly. It’s just that I am frustrated with this…and really do need a sanctum santorum of my own for creative reasons.)

So, that’s the update, such as it is.

How are you all doing? (Hopefully better than I am, but at least if you’re alive and kicking, that counts.) Do let me know, if you’re able…I would appreciate it greatly.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 10, 2025 at 11:44 am

Posted in Editing, in general, Michael B. Caffrey, Music, Persistence, Writing

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21 Years (Yes, 21) Without Michael

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Folks, about a week ago, I observed the title milestone, one I wish I’d never have had to face.

There’s this weird thing about numbers, you see. They can really freak you out. I remember September 21, 2011, as that was the seventh year since Michael died. Supposedly, all the cells in your body are replaced within seven years. I didn’t like that milestone either.

Others I haven’t liked included in that same year the day I turned a day older than Michael was when he died (no, I’m not going to mention which day) and of course the day my best friend, Jeff Wilson, died in November.

So, the sad milestones (“sadaversaries” in my parlance, a contraction of sad and anniversaries) have kept piling up. Ten years without Michael on September 21, 2014. Twenty years without him, last year. And twenty-one years without him this year…it’s something we do, as human beings, to both mark the passage of time and the people who shaped us and meant the most to us. It must not be too surprising that I always know exactly how long it’s been without my beloved husband. But it’s still difficult, challenging, and frustrating.

The reason twenty-one years is significant has to do with something I once heard about learning music and other skills. If you have the talent and you put in the work, it supposedly takes twenty-one years to be adept in any given discipline.

How does that apply, though? Does that mean I’m adept at grieving now?

I don’t know. I wish I did.

There’s a lot of people I miss in this life. My grandma. My father. My aunt Laurice and uncle Carl. Jeff Wilson. Those are all huge losses, and I will remember them all until the end of my life.

But nothing and no one has ever been more important to me than my late husband. Michael understood me and I understood him. We fit in every possible way, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. We had amazing, wide-ranging conversations, we were both creative (in addition to his writing, he was a great cook and an excellent artist), we both wanted most of the same things — stability, honesty, a deep and abiding commitment to one another, and to be together as long as we possibly could.

We did get almost three years from the time I met him, and two years, two months, and twenty-eight days of marriage. After so much loss, so much sadness, it seemed absolutely miraculous to meet Michael, and I know he felt the same way about me.

I’m still struggling with trying to find a new place to live. I’m also struggling with many other things at the moment, none of them particularly pleasant. But it does help me to know that Michael always believed in me, and he thought no matter how long it took, I would always find a way through any problem.

In short, I’d always survive.

When he was alive, of course, it would’ve been “survive and thrive.” But right now, survival is what I need to cling to, along with the belief that I can, will, and must get out of the current situation and into a better one.

Michael would tell me, if he could, that I have not failed. Not as a writer, as a musician, as a scholar, as a wife, or even as a widow. That I have not failed. So long as I keep trying, so long as there’s even a breath remaining in my body, I have not failed.

I’m trying to keep that thought in the top of my mind, these days, as the struggle continues.

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 27, 2025 at 10:14 pm

Posted in Faith, heartbreaking stories, in general, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Widowhood, Writing

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Recent Heckling of MLB’s Ketel Marte Troubling

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Folks, most of you who’ve read this blog for any length of time know I’m a baseball fan. And while my favorite team is the Milwaukee Brewers (always has been), my heart goes out to players who’ve suffered from life.

Take the Arizona Diamondbacks second baseman Ketel Marte, for example. Most people wouldn’t know he’s suffered loss, as he often smiles, laughs, and jokes around on the field…but recently, a fan heckled him in Chicago and it upset him dearly.

While I don’t know exactly what was said, Marte’s mother was invoked. It was apparently far beyond a “your Mama wears combat boots” type of insult, which most MLB players have heard since their days in Little League. My guess is it went like this: “It’s a good thing your mother’s already dead, considering what you just did.”

That’s wrong. It shouldn’t have happened.

See, Marte’s mother died in 2017. He still grieves for her. She died in a car accident, which means it was a sudden and completely unexpected death.

Marte is now thirty-one years old. He’s still a young man. But most of his success in major league baseball has come after the death of his mother, and that’s been very hard on him.

Maybe some of you are thinking, “He’s making big money. Why should I care?”

You should care because you’re a human being and you’ve likely suffered loss yourself.

I know that I understand how he feels. If someone heckled me about my late husband, I’d be first livid and then later very sad. It’s hard to stay above such personal insults. It hits you on a raw spot, even years later.

As for the unnamed fan, he’s been indefinitely banned by not just the White Sox, but by the entirety of MLB.

Baseball players are human beings. Their careers are often quite short. The money they make seems nice on its face, but there are a lot of trade-offs that come with that money, including constant travel, the potential for serious injury, the loss of time with their families, and much more. It’s not a job most people would want if they considered all the downsides, including possible interactions like with this dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks fan.

Most baseball fans have reacted the way I have, whether they’ve lost someone close to them or not. They know that insults like that are not acceptable and cannot be tolerated by civilized human beings.

I really wish everyone would try to remember that we only get this one life to live. We should approach people with dignity and respect as much as possible.

So if you’re going to yell insults at a baseball player or other athlete, stick with how they’re playing. Leave the parents, spouses, children, etc., out of it.

But better yet, don’t heckle at all. Life is too short for that.

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 26, 2025 at 12:03 am

Posted in baseball, Criticism/critique, in general, Informational Stuff, Prescient observations, Writing

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