Living With The "Man"

This week, my husband got a promotion, issued a Blackberry, and overloaded with boss-man work.
I'm so very proud.
However.....
Now I spend a disproportionate amount of time husband-less.
*sigh*
Oh well, a hot-blooded woman's gotta do what she's gotta do to make it through her day, regardless of the consequences. Don't tell me it's wrong, don't try and talk me out of it.
I know some people will think it's wrong, that I'm going to regret it eventually. Or the price will be too high, and when he finds out, I'm going to be riddled with guilt.


But I need it too much to deny myself.


The puppy might have to wait until spring, but I'm getting a DROID phone. And there's nothing you can say or do to talk me out of it.

Fluffy vs. Overstuffed

I have an addiction that so far I've managed to keep in the privacy of my own home. It's not that I'm ashamed of my condition, it's just that circumstance has kept me away from indulging myself in public.
Hi, my name is Heather, and I'm addicted to stand-up comedy.
I've had this problem for 17 years. It all began when I had cable installed in my first rental house. In my own defense, I've learned to become more selective in my watching, turning off the too sweaty, the obviously trying too hard, and the crude for crude sake performers. Somewhat of a connoisseur at this late stage, my list of favorite "hits" has been whittled down to a select few, such as Gabriel Inglesies--purveyor of the statement "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy!". He's a laarrrggee guy. Jiggles and is jolly when he laughs, which is often and contagious!
But he got me thinking today as I was watching his special. Going through my book with a fine toothed comb, I have discovered that there are many places that cry out for *more*. Some embellishment, or more description of the protagonist's mood or motivation, just *more*. The problem is, I find myself reluctant to add anything, fearing I will move beyond "fluffy" to "overstuffed". From sweeping majestic description to plodding overstatement. Flinching before an editor even gets their hands on it, expecting to cut it before it's even written. Intellectually, I know it's self-defeating, but there are days when there's no reasoning with my inner editor. There are work-arounds for it, but they're pretty rash. Most of the time, taking an hour or so break gets everyone back in line, ready to be reasonable with addition and subtraction. There are days that I have to get nasty, though. That's when the drywall mud comes out, the paint cans get opened, and I turn my back on the book completely. I ignore it so well that after a few days, my muse and her editor have re-negotiated and are ready and willing to play ball. Those are the days that I hobble away from the computer with hands curled into claws from muscle strain. It's wonderful, I float up the stairs on a cloud of euphoria and pain. That is one reason I write. And it's more addicting than stand-up comedians, and just as puzzling.

ghosts and machines

Deus Ex Machina..........
Traditionally, in days ancient and golden in literary fame, it was a machine that lowered godlike characters onto the stage, simulating divine intervention and the ability to untangle a sticky plot or impossible situation. Thanks to the encroaching nano-bot driven wave of science fiction, it has taken on another definition in modern language-that of spontaneous sentience within a mechanical/electrical device.

I need one of the first kind to influence the second.

My appliances, cars, and house are alive. There's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. And they have way better hearing than they should.

Every time I have more than two nickels to rub together, the collective consciousness that are my "machinas" somehow know, and have whispered conversations late at night to decide who is worthy of the next generous outpouring of my wallet.

What I would like is for the godlike "deus" of all machines to cut in on one of these pow-wows and intercede on my behalf. Just once or twice would be good. Then maybe, just maybe I won't kick them so hard when they do break, thus improving human/machine relations, and thus preventing the slaughter of all mankind in a mechanized future world.

Or maybe I could go on vacation for the first time ever.

Either is good with me!

Fall-ing in Love

There's something about this time of year that puts a spring in my step, a twinkle in my eye, and a tingle in my heart. Some people might equate the sensations I get with falling in love. In a sense, it is a love affair I have every October-I go head over heels in love with Fall. And just like real love, it celebrates the good things, while not glossing over the irritating habits your partner may have. Fall's annoying habit of getting really warm and bringing out the yellow jackets and post-summer sweat is forgivable, as long as I get the crystalline days that bring chilled cheeks and the breath of fallen leaves. Coffee tastes so much better on days like that, and has me in the kitchen (not like I'm in there every day anyway ;-} ) baking and stewing like I'm preparing a feast for an arriving prince. Then come the grey rainy days where I feel almost like it is a requirement to spend the day in it's entirety inside, either under a blanket or madly typing plotline, oblivious to the world around me. I'm cosseted in the thick woolen blanket of greyness, and the sharp edges of the outside world are muted and distant, unable to poke me in the eye for the day. Today was a day like that, excepting the sick, home from school son. He's a trooper though, watching movies, eating ice cream, and playing Xbox. At 15, he's pretty well able to take care of himself, but I follow him around when he gets up, snatching things out of reach and telling him to "stop touching things!" Despite patrolling the house, I got the rewrites done on the first two chapters this morning. I am good, really good with the progress so far, and now comes what I think is the easier rewrites, the main body of the book. The first two chapters are the set up for the rest of the book, introducing my main character, and it's set in a different place entirely than where the rest of the book takes place. It's somewhat bifurcated from the rest of the story, so it had a short, fast groove that I had problems getting into. Groove was gotten, changes were made, all is good in the drizzly grey Virginia countryside.

Deux and Redo

Whoof. I think that's the sound I'm looking for. Taking the sage advice of seasoned writers, I dismantled my first chapter and rewrote it. I ended up with something so amazing, so different from the stilted construction that comprised my first attempt at a chapter, that it was unrecognizable. I was even asked if it was the same book. Unfortunately, I'm finding that I absolutely hate doing rewrites. Passionately. I'm ok once I get rolling, but facing that blinking cursor on a new document is harder than I had anticipated. It's not that I hesitate to rip the already written chapter apart, it's more of a "aw man, haven't we already done this???" discouragement. The results are worth it, though. I'm impressed, my proof reader is impressed, so I soldier on. Already working on chapter two, fixing problems with plot flow I created with the editing of the first chapter. Every day, into the trenches boys!
Next step is to submit the new material, and hope that an agent is impressed.....More on the various turns life has taken in the past month later, now I have to turn over the internet for the sake of the children. Homework. Glad I assign my own nowadays!

Dirt Farming

No matter how grandiose my landscaping plans might start out, I always seem to be doing more rock moving, limb trimming, or dirt moving than anything else. No wonder I hate gardening. I thought it was more weeding, watering, light clipping....no, that's for people who plan out their garden! I'm just keeping ahead of the virginia creeper and filling in holes from where I've been slowly dismantling the disaster of a garden that was left behind by the previous owner of my land. At least I had the joy of eating a bunch of just ripened, warm tomatoes off the vine (and I mean off the vine-most of them didn't make it in the house) this year. That was definitely worth it, even though I kind of cheated by planting them above ground in planters this time. My plans for next year are somewhat nebulous right now, but I've already warned my hubby that he either needs to dig around the foundation for "repairs" (he thinks there's leaks) early next spring or it's off limits. I want flowers or something nice around the foundation next summer, dang it. It needs some finishing. It all needs some finishing, but there's only so much I can do with a tight budget. Maybe a book advance can pay for a new driveway and deck.....Hint hint, publishers!!!!!

The Road To Rejection

Is not, and will not be paved with dejection. I know the odds of getting a manuscript accepted in the first couple of submissions, and I'm not holding my breath just yet. What I am doing, however, is starting the next book. Waiting around for an answer on the first book before starting the next is career suicide in my book. (hah! I do a funny!) If I want to be a writer, I have to write. At this stage, I must write. It's gotten to something deep down in my soul, and a day without pages is a day without breath. Some days life rears it's ugly head and book-blocks me, but that is unavoidable with three munchkins and a leadership role in the household. I will concede on one thing, though. Root canal trumps book every time. Something about the taste of Novocaine that puts me off the words......