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.

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!