Hero Worship

     Right.
     I really need to stop writing blogs when I'm sleep deprived.
     It's doing absolutely nothing for my reputation as a sober, serious individual. And there's some guys wearing white lab coats lurking around lately, eyeing me with an unhealthy interest. It's kind of freaking me out. So let's talk books, and maybe they'll get bored and go away. They don't seem to be the reading type.
     Besides my own books, of which I am a rabid fan of (unless they're giving me back-sass, that is), I have an ever increasing stable of "never throw out" books that I will read over and over again when the desire to visit their world strikes me. They take me away to places new and bold, familiar and old, and bring me back to my world a happier, more thoughtful, insightful, peaceful, energetic person. They reveal layers of myself and the world I live in, enabling me to live my life with a wider and more comprehensive understanding of everything. The authors that create these stories? I quite frankly worship. The brains that came up with the worlds that captivate my imagination intrigue me, and I would love to have a telepathic mind-meld with them. There's really no way I could sit down and have a conversation with them--the stuttering, the drooling, and oh, the horror of the socially awkward mis-spoken statement would prompt a mad stampede to city hall for a 1000 yard restraining order. Mind meld, oh yes, that would be much safer for us all.
     But every once in a while, one of the subjects of my hero-worship tumbles off their gilded pillar, and I can never see them, or their books, the same way again. The glass has shattered, distorting the reflected glory into a hideous caricature of their former god-like status. I, meanwhile, am crushed and hurt. Betrayal of my most closely held emotions propels me to jettison every trace of their influence. Books are shoved under the bed or given away, bookmarks are burned, websites are deleted, Twitter feeds are un-followed, screen savers are uninstalled, t-shirts are heaved into the scrap pile. You see, there is no more fervent detractor than a former advocate.
     I'm not naming names, because my own personal feelings are irrelevant to the author in question. Their super-star status negates my input, for they have far too many shiny new fans, who are much louder and screechier than I ever was. My quiet devotion to their worlds, my constant support in the form of buying hardback versions of their newest book for the last 10 years--like I said, are irrelevant. The fan club that I actually shelled out $35 to become a member of--largely ignored. And that is a crying shame. Their books were good, until they rushed them and went for cheap thrills. The super-star status went right to their head, an intoxicating champagne that fizzed and bubbled until it became more important than the people that got them there. It's a shame, really. Those splinters they're going to pick up on the way down that ladder are going to sting like a bitch.
     Meanwhile, I'm in the market for a new hero. Any volunteers?
   
   

Productive Avoidance

     There seems to be a strange feedback loop going on in my head lately. "All is naught, all is imperative,"--a thought that floats through every moment of my day, a senile shaman who's had too much peyote, dancing and cackling merrily in my poor sore noggin. The significance of every thought, every action weighs heavily on me, while the utter insignificance of it floats my feet inches from the floor. It's driving me crazy, this 'forcing me to address the day moment by moment' doublethink (thank you, Mr. Orwell, for that exquisitely appropriate concept).
     So to deal with my new affliction, I've learned the sacred and mystical art of productive avoidance. A moving target is harder to hit, or so the reasoning goes. Clean the bathroom? Heck yeah! Change the water in the fish tank? You betcha! Suddenly decide to fix that length of fence line that had been peacefully falling down for five years? Sweet Georgia peaches yes! Be so tired that you want to pass out at the end of the day? That's the plan!
     And it's there that the cracks in the dam are found; the blank concrete face that I had presented to the day found riddled with fissures and rotten to the point of failure. There is nothing so tempting to circular logic than a worn down, weakly defended mind. What that evil, spinning logic keeps forgetting, though, is my secret weapon. Or cache of weapons, if there is sufficient fodder for them all to come out to play.
     My books.
     Oh yes, that was a plural stuck in there. And no, it wasn't a typo (I have plenty of those pre-edit, thankyou vry muach). There are now two and a half books bubbling in the works, one mostly to completion, the other more of a series of post-it notes and scribbled notations on various scraps of flat, note-friendly mediums. They keep me busy with their worlds, and mostly out of harm's way.
     I play with my plot, scheme with my themes, fraternize and satirize with my main characters, and generally get lost within the worlds that I have created in my own head. This sets up a wave propagation of delightful harmonics, cancelling out the squallings of introspective shamans, and luring me into the hopefully peaceful slumber that I crave.
     Or sends me scrambling for note-friendly mediums to jot down a breakthrough concept that just won't wait for the morning. Either way, I consider the day productive if I can avoid spinning in circles, questioning the very reason for my existence on this wobbly globe we call home. 

Chasing Dreams

     Sleep and I have never been cozy bedfellows, for reasons both physical and psychological. For one, you're so defenseless--sprawled there on your bed with most every sense diminished beyond usefulness, a half-corpse waiting for the predators of the night to shred you with claws of sharp, swift death. For another, sickness manifests itself in the darkest bowels of the night more so than in the healing light of day--when the body is repairing itself in REM sleep, things can and do go hideously wrong. Dying in your sleep may be a peaceful way to go, but personally, I want to have that last burst of adrenaline before I'm dragged out of here.
   
And then there are the dreams.

     The moonscape in the deeper part of my psyche holds creatures that sincerely do not appreciate any kind of illumination, be it in the form of visible light or from intrusive inquiry. They rise up over the rim of their craters when I dream; dark tentacles grasping for purchase on powdery rock, seeking the intruder into their world of shadows. Escaping their grip is painful, and leaves me gasping on the edge of tears when I do rise to wakefulness.

     But every once in a while, the spirit realm lays a gentling hand upon my brow, soothing away the helpless, strangled feeling, and grants me a brief respite. Then dreams, and sleeping, lose some of their ragged edges, smoothing out into something intriguing and memorable. Oh, they may be filled with guns, corpses (not mobile ones--zombies hold not a iota of sway in my subconscious), and random glee-filled violence, but it's all in good fun. And every once in a blue moon I have cameos--people who walk onstage with their knapsacks full of sweet memories and honorable (or wickedly not-so-honorable) intentions. Then I linger, chasing them through the friendlier realms of my dream worlds, pursuing the joy that the dream brings as much as the visiting doppelganger itself.

     The challenge I face in my waking life if eerily similar. Learning to chase the beautiful things in life instead of being pursued by monstrous figments of my imagination is a hard chore for me. I have always been haunted by the specter of "hard work is its own reward"--that soul and body crushing folk wisdom that has been cold comfort to the huddled masses over the decades. As I pass through this many, varied, and opportunity-riddled world, I am coming to find the lack of truth in that time honored phrase. For if hard work is its own reward, why do people pull in paychecks? That's an additional reward, above and beyond the hard work they've done. It's unraveling right before my eyes, and I'm not going to say I don't find a certain amount of relief in its demise.

     Dreams, the kind you imagine when awake, have always been a beautiful thing to me. In other people. I've had a hard time convincing myself that my dreams of authorship are worth pursuing, seeing as how they are not about hard work, in the "coal mine" kind of way, with back breaking physical labor that lets you know at the end of the day that you're "Another day older and deeper in debt". But now that the heavy weight of unacknowledged drudgery is sloughing away from my shoulders, I'm finding it easier to believe in my own waking dreams.

          

Sweat Is Just Weakness Leaving The Body

     I have a t-shirt emblazoned with that pithy quote, worn often to the CQB facility to play airsoft. The mindset of those that play either airsoft or paintball is that if you didn't leave bleeding, you didn't play hard enough. I still have the scars on my hands and forearms to testify just how very hard I played. But now, I wear it infrequently, and usually to do a bit of gardening. I have to qualify 'gardening', though, for in the words of my sixteen year old son, I don't 'garden', I landscape. I thought I was gardening, until I spoke with a few gardeners in my neighborhood, and realized that sod stripping, tree felling, rock excavating, brush clearing with a tractor and a saws-all was a far cry from the dainty weed picking they defined as 'gardening'.

Huh.

     I figured that unless I'm filthy, crusted with mud, leaves, or grass clippings, with bloody scratches decorating any exposed skin, and having made a major visual impact to my frequently unruly acre and a half, I was slacking off. It's nice to know that once again, I've blown way past actual expectations and have arrived at precisely where I'm most comfortable--working both smarter and harder. Why is that my comfort zone? Because it keeps me centered, focused, and most importantly, in control. I don't relish the idea of turning any part of my environment over to strange hands, and it gives me the willies when I have to. But I know that I can't drill my own teeth, do my own surgery, and most importantly....sell my own book.
     That's the providence of my agent, the brilliant-minded Natalie Fischer, who has walked me through some of the darkest and scariest terrain I have ever trod--Revision Land. I never thought a person could actually, physically sweat while writing in February. The changes she tactfully suggested pushed me deeper into my characters, forced me to embrace them on a level I had unknowingly avoided. I realized as I was revising that it was hard for me to know them on a truly personal level--they were my creations, and I was being a bit high-handed and distant. Keeping them at arm's length, thinking that if I didn't "get involved" too deeply, it wouldn't hurt as bad when they were rejected by the outside world. And believe me, they got rejected. But Natalie saw something within both myself and my world that she liked, and wanted to bring out the best within all of us.
     So I pushed myself, pinched myself (to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and really did have an amazing agent), sweated, bled, and ground my teeth; and landscaped where I had just been gardening before.
     But like any good garden, it's never really done until you can harvest enough to survive the winter with. I suspect there's still a bit of sweating to do, but I know that without a doubt, I'm up for the challenge.
     The weakness is leaving my manuscript, forcing it drop by drop to a strength that rivals my own.

Gone Fishin'

     I'm not quite sure how this happened. It all started so innocently, but has spiraled out of control so badly that it's now become a major obsession. I won't even try to say I can stop anytime I want to, because frankly, I don't want to stop. And at this point, I can't.

     The house is over-run with it; upstairs, downstairs---and there's even talk of doing it outside now. Let the neighbors talk. I don't care.

     No, there's no need for an intervention, or to get the authorities involved. I've just been swept away by the raging fever of aquarium keeping:

     That last one was an accidental tank--the hubby caught the fever too, and got some mollies, who promptly gave birth that first night to 15 fry, two of which survived. If you look reeeeeal close, you might be able to pick out the tiny guys.

     But what fun it has been! I never knew how involved the whole fish thing could be. I thought just plopping them in a tank of filtered water and throwing some flake food in on top of them a couple of times a day would suffice. Oh what a fool I was. There's water testing, temperature levels, bio-filtration, compatibility with other fish, (which I found out the hard way. Bettas and tetras do NOT get along well, especially if your male betta is hyper-aggressive. Floaters greeted me the next day)

     So now I'm obsessed. Just ask my kids. They are starting to roll their eyes when I call them over to look at the new trick the female betta learned in her new big tank, or when I talk baby-talk to my sweet little neon tetras. Yes I know they can't hear me, but at least they have an excuse. The three teenagers occupying space in my house don't live underwater, and make a bigger messes than my fish!!

     And no, I'm not using them as an excuse to be glacier-slow on my current rewrite. I'm just, well, being difficult with myself. I was requested to take two of my most entertaining characters out of the book and replace them with ones that don't steal the spotlight from the main characters so very effectively, and it's been trying to kick my ass. I'm not real good at slowing down and re-thinking things, so it's been a real learning curve, but I think I'm in the home stretch now. There are a few more notes to take, and a couple of knots to untangle, but nothing too traumatic.

     Right after I feed my fish.



      

Demons, Dragons, and Sharp Toys

Everyone has demons. Big, small, fanged or riddled with tentacles, we all have those inner twitchings that make us more, and less, than who we are. They define us, push us, hold us back, bully us forward. Mine have the surprising and frustrating ability to do all of the above simultaneously.  It makes for the most silent and bitter struggles, self against created self, to keep control over my life and not let them have their way with me. I don't alway win. And it's entirely my own damn fault. The balance of power tips over to my inner demons when I allow others to let their demons play in my backyard, breaking my toys and leaving giant piles of dung in their wake.

I need to quit watching the news.

It's not healthy.

Why do we insist on knowing so much of other people's demons? Does it make it easier to ignore our own, pretend ours don't have claws just as sharp? Or does it quiet them, knowing that there are other, larger things that would eat them whole for a snack?

No, I'm not talking of tsunamis, or earthquakes, or any other disaster--natural or man made.

I speak of those who should be silent, yet squawk loudest of all. Those that have nothing but doom, gloom, and dire predictions. Or who broadcast vices and problems like it's something to be proud of and quickly forgiven and forgotten. The politicians. The 'celebrities'. The psudo-news agencies.

You know who you are.

I have a small collection of really interesting knives that I've collected over the years. But none of them have a specific purpose. They are blades, and blades in my mind can be used for ever so many things. But I think I need a new, exquisitely honed blade that I can dedicate to just one single, specific usage. One so sharp that it can slice deeply before the pain registers, and so dexterously thin that it can carve its way around even the most delicate vein.

I'm cutting out the rotten and damaged bruises that other people's demons have left me with. And keeping them at bay with a glitter in my eye, and protective fierceness in my heart. My demons are dragon enough for me to handle. I don't need to welcome them into my heart, house, or home. No more newscasts for me. No more self-indulgent Facebook friends. I'm not reading another Tweet that has links to yet another late breaking story of doom and gloom. Keep your demons.

And get off my lawn.

Bloody-minded Celt

     For many years, I have felt an affinity for Celtic anything—knot work, pagan Goddess worship, bagpipe music, you name it, I loved it. I still do, but now there is a faint, uncomfortable tinge to my admiration. Thanks to my wonderful mother and her genealogy research, I now know that while it is true that I am closely related to the Emerald Isle and her inhabitants, the story is much longer and bloodier than it appears on the surface. Tracing our lineage back, we have discovered that our ancestors had the same fascination with the Celts, but in a more direct and active way. Our beloved ancestors were so fascinated, they came over not once, but twice to check them out for themselves, in the form of:

1.) Viking “exploratory committees” and

2.) Bill the Conqueror’s BFF’s.

Oh.
 

     Now I wonder if it’s more than simply a fondness of the culture, or some echo of the need to make it my own that my forebears were so adamantly pursuing. Or maybe-- and this is coming from modern psychology-- I feel guilty on some ethnic level about taking what was never mine in the first place and want to make it up to them in some way. I think it might be both. There is another level of me that does feel very specifically guilt-ridden and unsure about ever voicing it publicly, in a most modern sense though. In most stories, no matter the medium used to deliver them (movies, books, oral traditions), there is a sympathy for the innocent victims of invading forces, the brave fighters standing shoulder to shoulder against overwhelming odds, giving their lives willingly to defend their families and way of life. Or of the righteous fighters of freedom that conquer evil both on their home ground and abroad. But my own bias in this case is towards my ancestors, and how very bad-ass they were. Strength, surety of purpose, and getting the job done right has always been a turn-on for me, a deciding factor in so many choices of my life. Which puts me at odds with the general outlook of morality and storytelling—I root for not the underdog in this case, but for the violent and victorious forces that crushed a smaller and weaker culture so completely that very little of it has translated to modern day.

And let me tell you, pride and mortification mix into a sour and undrinkable brew.

History has always been important to me, for I have a deep seated need to know exactly where I have been in order to move forward, both personally and professionally, and to examine exactly why I do what I do. This is taking the knowledge to an unexpectedly deep level, and revealing to my astonished psyche why I have the tendencies that I do. I am absolutely convinced that genetics play heavily into who you are, along with the cultural affinities that echo down through every generation. The nature vs. nurture conflict, in my mind, is trying to make human behavior fit into a single, easily definable box. Nice and tidy, I would agree on that.

Unfortunately, human behavior is the farthest thing from neat and tidy as you can possibly get. It is both nature and nurture, combined with a sticky, undefined cloud-like ephemeral quality that is as difficult to define as quantum mechanics. It is the link that all of us have to our ancestors, regardless if we know one iota about them. The way you talk, walk, think, and the tone that underlies everything you do is subtly affected by your lineage. If you don’t believe me, try engaging a dog breeder into a discussion over bloodlines and point of origin. Now that is passion on a level that would make any Viking proud.
 

     I once saw a t-shirt during my brief membership in the Society for Creative Anachronism that said “1066—Not Enough Saxon Violence”. On one hand, I was appalled (I was young and idealistic, what can I say), but on a deeper, more instinctual level I agreed. And that appalled me again. But as I grow older, I realize that humans are violent. More so than the ‘natural’ world. And I understood the need to invade, to conquer, to expand and to take what is not mine. And no, fortunately for my neighbors, I put none of those impulses to trial on the surrounding countryside. But I understand it. And I can quietly say, with a very non-PC flair, that my ancestors were really good with follow through, and I’m proud that they had the balls to do what they did. Go team!

                 

Does This Taste Funny To You?

Every day is open mike night at my house. Humor has a seat at our table, all day, every day. I think it should be a part of daily life to tell at least one joke a day, the worse the punchline the better. I say the worse, because although a great joke told with impeccable timing is a wonder to behold, did you ever notice that there is an awkward silence after all the guffawing is over, and everyone just stands there and wonders what to say next? How can you top the great joke? Naw, the best jokes are the ones that have you groaning at the ridiculousness of the punchline, because they give you something to talk about after it has been delivered. Usually, it is a great segue to deliver another horrible, crass, or just plain stupid joke of your own, kind of a one-upmanship contest of sorts.
I had ample opportunity to do field research on this phenomenon recently when my septic tank mainline decided to go all medieval on us. And by medieval, I'm talking about the 'lack of sanitation facilities' kind of medieval. It sucked. Big time. There was hand-digging in frozen ground for me and hubby, paying rotor-rooter services insane amounts of money to not fix the problem, unspeakable flooding, the works. What saved the whole thing from making it the most miserable time of our lives was straight up potty humor. I started it, and kept at it so ferociously, that even the joke-impaired husband got into the act, and instead of moaning over the hard labor and money flowing out the door (and not down the drains) we laughed about it instead. There developed a certain 'brown' theme that colored every aspect of our lives, both funny and not-so-funny. The overall balance, I tried to keep on the funny side, because anger and tears clean not a speck, replace not a pipe! I had everyone on guard against my 'ninja' humor-- mostly puns that snuck up on the unsuspecting recipient and delivered a punchline either so tasteless or undeniably witty that all they could do was roll their eyes and groan, admitting my mad, punny skills.
But it's all about taste. Most of the jokes told in my house are not fit for public use, they are that freaking bad. And it is a kind of shared secret language in the family that would make no sense anyway to anyone who over heard most of them. It's our flavor, our color, our taste in humor. You might not find a single thing that crosses my lips funny in the least, and I may look at you blankly if you tell me a joke that is over my head or out of my league. But I'll try to get it, to understand your flavor of humor, because I think it's an important way to bond with a person, and to take their measure all at the same time. If I can see what makes you laugh, and inversely, what makes you cry, I can know more about you than if I had a cheat-sheet with your life's bullet points on it. Humor is what makes us, sorrow is what breaks us. So if I knew what makes you whole, and what breaks you down, then all the stuff in between just falls into place.
Oh, and by the way, can you guess what was going through my head as I was staring into my septic tank for the umpteenth time trying to figure out what was wrong with it?

"I don't need this sh*t."


Yep. Mad ninja skills.

Organic, But Not Green

One of the advantages of being a writer is shaping worlds to your own particular viewpoint, and having the characters play out scenarios in the manner in which you envision them. One of the disadvantages to being a writer is the simple, unavoidable fact that sometimes your imaginary friends have a mind of their own, if life is breathed into them with enough passion. They hijack plot lines, blurt out things that complicate relationships, and pull things out of their pockets that I didn’t know they had stuffed in there. Keeping up with them has been hard work, but worth it.  It has made the journey of my writing a surprisingly spontaneous, organic experience-- organic not in the FDA certified way, but organic as in a growing, living thing that pulses with its own life and dreams.  What a long, strange trip it’s been, as the hippies would say.  

Using that particular quirk of my writing, I can tell if a character is doing what is right for them, or if I’m trying to force a point. If I’m writing them into behaviors that aren’t their particular cup of tea, they balk hard, and I struggle to write a single page of dialogue. Days go by, and I’ve done nothing but type, backspace, type, backspace. They’re not happy with me, and sometimes it takes me days to realize where I’ve wandered away from my friends. For instance: I have a new character I’m trying to introduce into the second book, and all my main girl can do is swoon over him.  Trust me; she’s not the swooning type. I have worked this guy over for hotness factor, rugged dude look, manly mannerisms, and intriguing background. I thought I had him DOWN. What I forgot to pay attention to was his situation. He’s an office guy. Pencil pusher. Heroine worshiper. He kisses the ground she walks on. Has the whole Bounty paper towel dude look going on, but gets manicures. He’s perfect, but too much so. He’s not rough enough around the edges, and not mysterious enough, doesn’t have the connection with the outdoors like he should. So my main girl decided to show me (I think by being a complete smartass) that he’s wrong for her, and the plot, by fawning all over him, blushing (!!) and agreeing to a ‘weekend away’ after just one date.

Uh, what?

This from the girl that would rather flatten another guy for breathing even the suggestion that she’s easy, rather than give into obvious mutual attraction. Even if he was half out of his mind with crazy, and didn’t have any control over himself? Didn’t matter. Decked him. And now she’s staring into the middle distance, sighing and having fuzzy-edged thoughts about this new guy?

Pshaw.

I went off the rails somewhere. I think, no, I KNOW it’s the new guy’s fault. I’m going to pluck him out of his comfort zone and toss him to the tigers, see what comes up red. Take him down a notch, rough him up a little. Then maybe my main girl will quit with the heaving bodice act. Wish me luck-I hope none of the tigers escape and maul anyone important.

Tweeky Geeky

So I'm sitting here, tweeking my manuscript for the I-don't-knowth time, watching the Science Channel. I love me some satellite TV--so many truth-based guessing shows to choose from! Science is my weakness, my anti-kryptonite. If knowledge really was power, I would be a hell of a superhero--

LECTURE GIRL!!!!

Oh, I would give the BEST informative speeches. 

"Formation of the Moon--Facts, Fictions, and Shit You Just Would Not Believe." 8pm, Holiday Inn Express conference room.

"Lava Flow and the Formation of Super Awesome Crystals" Call for tour info.

"Obey Gravity--It's the LAW" Book signing at local used book nook.

Since the superhero thing isn't manifesting yet, I'll have to settle on making super friends and super enemies when my book blows up like *gaacckk* Twilight  *gaaaaggggguuuhh*

Sorry, threw up in my mouth a little bit.

I think I've found an agent for my book, if the extremely helpful advice she's giving me is any indication. The manuscript is a thousand times better than when I started, thanks to her helpful insight. And I figure I'm a winner either way--she either accepts me formally, or I just got a bunch of email help from a pro. Help is hard to come by in this industry, the helpful kind, that is. There is an entire industry built around "helping" new authors with everything but sitting their butt down and typing something. Most of it "helps" the hopeful writer out of their money.

 I want to lighten reader's wallets a bit in exchange for giving them something to do on the train. Those people who sell a writer their dreams back to them packaged as a quick and easy surefire novel are scum. SCUM! Just because some one is gullible, doesn't make it OK to take advantage of them. I don't pluck that wallet hanging out of that lady's purse, and I would stop you if I saw you try.

UGH--Injustice, don't get me started. 

Then I might not finish tweeking my book, and then what would you do on the train?

Crazy is as Crazy Does

The insanity online has swelled to a fever pitch--not about one particular thing, mind you, it just is swelling. Like a head wound that needs looked at. I keep trying to foray out into cyber-space, thinking that I can make my voice heard, and that people would be interested in something I might have to say. Unfortunately, there is no way ANYONE can hear me over the white, screaming noise the internet has become. And I'm just not willing to yell louder just to make myself hoarse. There are so many platforms, and groups to join, accounts to manage, that I feel lost sometimes.

Success is just around the corner if you can have enough exposure!
Build your online empire, tie your accounts together, and enough people will notice you and then buy your stuff!!
Millions of readers are waiting just to be directed to your SPLASH!! , FLASH!!, and mostly unreadable crazy-backgrounded website and blog!!!

It's driving me out of my ever lovin' MIND!!!!

I don't like the idea of throwing myself out there, splattered across the internet like some kind of cyber roadkill.

It's

Just

Plain

Tacky.

I don't want a reality show.

I don't want a million followers on Twitter hanging on my every move.

I don't want a web cam watching me cook on a homegrown YouTube reality show.

I don't want to be on TV.

All I want to do is to write well-written books that are well received and mostly well reviewed.

And there are too few hours in the day for me to do that, have a large family, a husband, and a house, and on top of that be a splattering idiot on the internet. Nope. Sorry. Not going to do it.

Oh, and I really do not want to post my weight, workout accomplishments, or what store I'm shopping at.

There is such a thing as TOO MUCH INFORMATION. And to keep my sanity, I'm going to keep most of my information to myself. Just call me an old-fashioned reclusive author. It's what I'm built for.
So I'll just keep this little sane corner to myself, and hope that some nice people wander in every once in a while to say "Hey".

The Sound of Silence, or How Loud The Screaming In My Head Really Is

School's back in session, which means my three sweet, adorable, chaos making, snack devouring, how can you use THAT much toilet paper, darlings are doing drudgery five times a week at the public schools.
Heh.
Just because I'm not prancing around singing "it's the most wonderful time of the year" doesn't mean I don't have the urge, I'm just toooooo busy now.
The summer didn't go quite as I had expected, as you know. So there is a bit of a backlog of projects that need getting at now. Inside, not so much, just the usual cleaning and such, but outside, thanks to the surgery and the triple digit heat I got less than nothing done, all I really managed to do was come up with MORE damn projects as I was sitting in the AC with the son on the couch. But they sounded so small, so easily done in a single afternoon! And now that I thought of them, I can't un-think them. So they'll get done, by goddess! I just hope this autumn is as awesomely autumn-y, like the summer was so very summer-y. Crisp air, falling leaves, that hint of campfire in the air......now THAT'S the most wonderful time of the year!
The outside aside, I have a great big honking son-of-a-you-know-what looming over my head that awaits every time it gets quiet around here. The next book has started to be a bit more impatient now that the crisis is over, and has progressed from light throat clearing to all out screeching at the top of it's metaphorical lungs. The problem with this one, is that it has required way more research, and involves way more emotional whiplash for my main character. Oh, she's going to kick my ass for this one, all the way to the end of the book. I hope it stays within the parameters I have planned for, but knowing her, she's going to send this one off the rails, and hard. I just hope she waits until the end, because if I had to do all this research into ancient Persian monotheism for nothing, someone's going to be screaming, and it's not going to be the voices in my head this time!
Oh, and I fixed the setting that has blocked comments on the blog--so fire away!

Cautiously Optimistic, without a side of broccoli

Oh my. Oh me oh my. I got my very first request for a full manuscript from an agent. The universe, being the coincidental and complicated place that it is, saw fit to have said request land in my inbox the day my son was transferred from the ICU to a regular hospital bed after his open heart surgery. I didn't see it for three days (living at the hospital does have its drawbacks) and I was a bit distracted to check my email anyway. However, I did appreciate the cosmic "party" thrown in my honor, and have thanked the appropriate deity in charge of timing. More nods to the cosmic pun factory were in store, after finding out that since my son will have to be on blood thinners for the rest of his life, there are certain foods that are prohibited from this point on, mainly spinach, broccoli, and all greens. I think he's been practicing for this moment for his whole life-the mere smell of cooking broccoli makes him run for the hills!
I am cautiously optimistic about this request for my entire book, and highly anticipating any input a professional in the industry would have about my story. There is a fine line in my head between optimism and wild speculation, and I'm trying so very hard not to cross into the sharp-edged world of high expectations. The publishing industry is fraught with shark filled pits of self-destruction, where criticism can gnaw you down to nothing but bones. There is too much pain in the world for me to set myself up right on the edge of that pit, toes hanging over the edge. So I remain cautiously optimistic, with fingers and toes crossed.

Justified

Today, cruising through ye olde towne, I got stuck behind a mail truck. Seeing as how I was in no big hurry, I puttered on behind her, backing up traffic, and generally being a great big pain in the ass. No crossing a double yellow line for me, no sirree! The guy five cars behind me took umbrage at my outlandish courtesy and passed us all, horn a-blowing and naughty finger a-waving. Weelll.....the state trooper in the quite clearly marked SUV (you know-light bar, big blue VIRGINIA STATE TROOPER emblazoned across every flat surface) that was right behind me wasted no time in making pretty sparkly blue lights at him and giving him a ten minute lecture plus ticket. (Yes, I stopped to watch, but I was going to the Walgreens, I swear!) If anyone had been able to see inside my vehicle as he got chased down, they probably would have called an ambulance, convinced I was having a seizure. There was fist pumping, high fiving, and general displays of not so ladylike behavior going on in there.
Hah! Justification. Smells like victory.
It doesn't always happen like that, as you all are well aware of. Which makes it so much sweeter when it does.
I experienced something this weekend that I know will never see it's moment of sweet sweet revenge, and it makes me both sad and outrageously angry. Disney has taken upon itself to corrupt yet another of the great stories. Alice in Wonderland is a travesty. A blatant and sickening reminder of the power of corporate thinking. They have taken a story with the staying power of over a hundred years and moulded it into something they can make money off of, riding the coattails of Lewis Carol's enduring appeal to a sequence of generations and making it a shadow of it's former self. From my generation onward, people will be thinking that this abomination is the real story, for how many people nowadays take the time to actually read the classics? Just as video killed the radio star, movies (made by large corporations--indie films are much better about this) have fundamentally distorted the legacy of human literature. Why read the book? Watch the movie! In 3D! High Def! 1080p!
So for any of you out there that have not read the weird, confusing, poetry-riddled wonderland that Carol penned well before our time, do me a favor. Read the book, then watch the movie. You'll understand, I hope, and then maybe, just maybe, I can sleep better knowing there is a spark out there that can be fanned into a wildfire of respect for our literary heritage.

Broken Hearted

Central air-conditioning was a non-negotiable point when shopping for our house a few years ago, what with having enough of the sweaty and miserable nights and days of my youth. But it wasn't the cool, dry air wafting ever so softly out of the vents that gave me a brief case of the chills yesterday. It was in actuality the sobering news that my son's surgery of four years ago had been outgrown, and more was looming soon on the horizon.
Good news? The fact that he had grown. He's approaching six feet.
Bad news? Another open heart surgery.
Good news/Bad news all around, in so many aspects. We have a choice this time, not only of fixes, but of world class surgeons.
I may rail against NorVa, but there are some perks. Proximity to so much experience, so many facilities is priceless when it comes down to the wire. The idea of having to cross the country to get him great medical service is appalling. And scary. I admit it, I'm a homebody. Now that I have a home of my own, I'm pretty vested in my policy of non-wandering, for now. I still get itchy when I think that I've been in the area for a whole ten years, but the soothing balm of a well-healed child works it's magic every time.
So, now begins the research, the phone calls, and the interviews to find the best of the best of the best surgeon and fix for my manchild. I thank the ethereal powers that be that it is now, and not a generation ago. Medical science has come leaps and bounds since then. Whew.

Second Love, First Time

Spring has sprung, launching itself onto my aching back and digging its claws deep. The garden looks wonderful, so I at least have something nice to stare blearily at while I power-chug black coffee and run down the list in my head of all that remains to be done. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. Even if I had the disposable income to hire some nubile satyr to yank weeds for me, there is no way I would give up the therapy of grubbing in the dirt and then sitting back and admiring my very own handy work. I did that a bit after my first book was done-sit back and stare dumbly while I tried to come to grips with the scope of what I had accomplished. The true meaning of "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" had finally become realized for me, in a very intimate way. In the past, impatience and myself had been bosom buddies, BFFs, my constant companion. I've learned the hard way how to slow down and follow through in the last few years, and I saw it pay off in spades in my manuscript. One word at a time, I hammered down 77,000 of them, all coherent (ok, NOW they're all coherent-thank you proof readers!) and telling a nicely original story. But like a good parent, I have to let it go to the wide world, and focus on the one left at home. Book number two is working its magic on me, catching me by surprise in the oddest moments of inspiration (writing plot points in gardening gloves is fun as hell), creeping into my thoughts the second I'm actively trying not to fall off ladders, or having me asking questions of my family such as "do you think leather gloves would singe or melt if set on fire?". The romance between the plot and I is still new and fresh, and we're both still dancing around that first kiss, but the thrill is back from the first time. Unlike a real relationship, I can see some of what is going to happen, and I know I get to steer. Ok, I'm delusional. My heroine will take the reins firmly in hand and drag my ass over the rocks. She's just that kind of girl. I love her to bits.

Crimson and Clover

I woke up this morning to the song spooling through my head, so disregard the previous non-clover statements. I couldn't resist the pull of the Shondells. Who can? Not I, said the ginger.
The wicked winter here on the East coast we tender Virginians have suffered through seems to have slunk off to plot next years assault. Spring is raising a sleepy head and taking a quick look around to see if the coast is clear, pushing up crocus flowers and daffodil shoots as she rises. It's a hopeful time of year, the new green renewing our hope for revived life, giving us a promise of wonderful and lush things to come. The weeds have yet to rear their unwelcome heads, and I'm thankful for the short time I have to admire the flowerbeds in the yard without the nagging urge to tidy them up. Don't get me wrong-there are many plants that grow wild here that some consider pests, unwelcome stragglers that wander into well tended beds that I welcome with open arms. Weeds are subjective, like most anything might well be. Some have a beauty that rivals the most carefully cultivated botany, and are hearty enough to survive even my tender ministrations. There are some, however, that if I don't nip in the bud would gladly run amok and strangle out the deliberate plantings. Clover, no matter how delicately beautiful their pinkish balls of cottony flowers, are one weed that I gladly yank out with vigor. I can safely say that no one would ever accuse me of being overly zealous with my gardening, but I try to keep it all within a certain balance.
I had to stop and put away my manuscript for the same reason. I have weeded out the glaring mistakes in the plot line, corrected my many attempts to write sentences without all the required words, and filled in holes that needed filled. It was almost a complete rewrite, and according to my proof readers the book has become stronger, more intricate, and a better read all around. Caught up in weeding out mistakes, I began to do more than that, and began falling down the rabbit hole of perfection. Not that it is perfect, mind you. It's a mindset. At some point I realized that all I was doing was delaying the inevitable. Submission. I had already submitted the unchanged manuscript twice, with predictable results. Rejection is par for the course in this business, but it still stings. Trying to achieve the impossible perfect book was a way for me to avoid those slings and arrows, and once I realized it, I took off the gardening gloves, put the hoe away, and started showing my garden to other people. I'm still collecting rejections, yes, but having come to terms with the fickle nature of the publishing industry, I will let the book stand on it's own merits and continue to parade it before agents until I am accepted by one. Meanwhile, work on the second book is underway,along with two short stories I picked up inspiration for last week that I'm making notes on. A passionate reader is what I used to be, a writer is what I want to be, and by god a writer is what I shall be. Time will tell if I am a successful one or not, if success is measured in publication. I have already achieved a major goal in my life already-to write a good book-and in my mind that makes me a success already. All else is frosting.
Mmmmm. Cake.

Done

I am done. Done with snow, done with winter, and more importantly, done with the first Berserker novel. The revisions have been dragging on for a while, I fell down the rabbit hole of nit-picking pretty hard even with my vow to leave it as it stood that I made to myself oh so many months ago.Granted, I am now comfortable and proud of my story, and will submit it to the wolves of the publishing industry with my head held high and a battle cry of "Oh yes, one of you will love this!" resonating in my heart.

With the help of a thick white cover of the cold stuff, I pushed through to the end, rewrote the prologue, and hit save for the last time it will be touched without professional prompting. The fact that most of the story takes place in the depths of winter helped hasten the last few days of editing--I was getting so cold while sitting at my desk in the basement my hands were getting clumsy as I was typing. The frosty weather inside my head and outside my window were the perfect storm to have me well in the mood to write as if I really was in northern Maine in the middle of yet another winter storm, but left me decidedly frigid. I'm looking forward to the next book, for this one takes place not only much farther south, but at the beginnings of an interesting and nicely warmer summer.
Now, if only it were that easy to switch seasons here in northern VA.

Sick of Being Sick

When I was a kid, I had a book titled "The Sick of Being Sick Book" that had a bunch of things you could do to entertain yourself when you were home from school sick. Wastebasket tissue basketball, snot identification charts, how to fake a fever to get an extra day, great things that unfortunately were moot if you were really sick enough to be kept home from school in the first place. To be kept home, you had to be toeing the edge of your hand-dug grave, and the last thing you had the energy to do was make a snowman army from used tissues. It was great reading for the healthy times though, and I think I still have that book around here somewhere, buried among the remains of my childhood memory boxes. What that book couldn't do, and what countless other books I've read in the intervening years couldn't do was tell me how to keep from becoming convinced that you really were on your deathbed while indisposed with your sickness. I do this every time I come down with something nastier than the sniffles. This is the big one, I think to myself, time to put my affairs in order, kiss the dog goodbye one last time, and make sure enough laundry is done so that my family will have clean towels to swaddle my hollow shell in when I shuffle off this mortal coil. And every time, I end up getting better, albeit with a head start on the laundry.
Head space is what you make of it, come to find out. The topography of your soul is somewhat determined by the experiences endured in life, good and painful, but ultimately, you are your own landscape artist. The mountains and molehills of your mind are set, but the gardens and paths you stroll down are entirely of your own design. Your hand sets the seedlings, carefully or carelessly prunes the topiary, and either rakes the gravel paths or lets them be devoured by choking weeds.
I realized during my last bout of illness (more than a cold, but I'm not willing to discuss the hospital implications here) that I had been haphazardly planting my internal gardens and using a heavy and uncaring hand in their upkeep. I'm not out of the metaphorical woods yet, and I'm looking at a possible long stay in my own topography soon. Although it's far from spring in the external world, it's now planting time in my soul. Beauty is supposed to start from within. It's high time I had more than poisonous herbs and thorn bushes lining my barely discernible pathways.

Unwilling Participant

My main character is giving me heartburn. She is reluctant to do the final confrontation with her former mentor, and is doing everything in her power to stall the inevitable. She's got good reason to be a feet-dragger, but it sure is making my life a lot harder than it has to be. Hurt, emotionally vulnerable, and fed up with her own behavior, the last thing she wants to do is visit someone who she knows will be more than willing to point out her shortcomings. What she doesn't know is that it will be all good, and that once she lays eyes on him everything will change. He's broken too, and in ways that are completely alien to him, but all too familiar to her. Whether either one of them likes it, they need each other to heal, and the finger pointing has got to stop. From both sides.
Can't we all just get along?????
Nope.
Cause if we did, where would good fiction come from?
Actually, I know why she's being such a pain in my ass. Once I finish this scene, put a final few wrap-up sentences on the end, and spell/grammar check the whole thing, I get to throw her and the cast to the wolves.
Don't wanna.
Really can't wait.
Conflict, you gotta love it.
I'm an unwilling participant in my own creation for today, so since I already have five pages and one of two major scenes out of the way, I'm going to give myself over to the goddess of good coffee, and let my main girl throw a hissy fit all by herself and get it out of her system. Maybe being sent to her room in my head for the rest of the day will have her willing and able to face her(our) fears tomorrow, and get on with her recovery.
Until then, coffee will be the only thing that soothes this savage breast.