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.