Doing what I do ...

How much could you accomplish if you focused your energies on one thing? That's the question some of us at RWA Online will attempt to answer in the month of October. Every October, the members gear up for one of the biggest writing challenges of the year. Some of the members write for all those challenges, but one a year is just the start I need to tune my brain to productivity. Now, with our teams aligned and an objective at hand, we romance (and other esteemed) writers will do what we do. We will write because it's in our blood. We will honor our dear departed sister in the craft by living our dream because her life was cut short due to cancer. By the way, it is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Ladies, please check yourselves regularly and be agressive in guarding your health.

Even if none of us wins a bid for publication from this writing exercise, which I sincerely doubt, we will have done our best and stretched our wings. And sometimes exercising the faith involved in living dreams out loud is more than good enough.

What is your dream? And what are you doing to weave the threads of that dream into reality?

Forgot... shame on me!

I received a request for a full of my manuscript this week! Yea!!! The agent thought my title was cute. She was the first to say so. I think it's pretty good, but what do I know? I'm stoked, and so glad that I sent it out. This manuscript was about to join the book of my heart in the realm of dustbunnies, but something told me to give it another try.

I still haven't sent out the partial requested from the conference I attended a week, or was it two, ago. Man alive! This week is going to be creative hell, but I am so looking forward to it because writing is my passion!!! Okay, I'm really leaving this time. My eyelids have lead weights on them.

You know you want to know...

So today was my court date. Or should I say the court date of my fictional heroine... At any rate, I arrived at the courthouse at 0746. I fed the meter and went inside. After being processed airport style, I entered the room with about 70 others like myself. We watched a little video on how to work with the state judicial system and then we were issued plea documents. The whole process was interesting, and of course, possible fodder for the fiction. Now, I've never been a fan of daytime television. Got too much to do when it's on, but this judge had jokes. My favorite was when he told the senior citizen that she'd been charged with vehicular manslaughter in a school zone. All of us were stunned. It was one of those moments when a collective group can be said to have held their breath -- audibly! Of course all the dear lady was guilty of was speeding like the rest of us. I should be ashamed to say I laughed, but I haven't quite worked myself up to that level of maturity. Fair enough, we all needed a giggle before signing off the equivalent of vital organs in fines.

Tonight was the last night of class. At least this class. There will be many more as I am not scheduled to graduate until 2008, but you best believe I am perched in my recliner with an obscene amount of vodka to celebrate the end of the beginning. Sadly folks, tonight's post is short as I am dead dog tired and amping up for Salsa Night. There are bound to be more stories, and I promise to keep you posted. Buenas noches, friends!

I don’t need an anvil to fall on my head…

So, I believe in signs. Wonders from the deep. Omens, all the freaky stuff you can see on Supernatural Saturday on BBC America. Well, here is my sign. You be the judge, though because I could be wrong. And hey! You lurkers, I want to hear from you because my brain is too addled to process much of anything that doesn't come with a diagram.

Last Monday, I went to work early so I would be able to get off early on Friday for the writers' conference. On the surface, this was a great plan – kosher with the bosses and my customers. Things were fantastic. I got so much done, and then one of my systems bogged. As they do, I thought. I shut the program and rebooted. Of course, the system failed again and had nerve to give me a personalized error message – "Call technical support." So I did. Together, the techie and I did the normal shut down/reboot routine and nothing worked so he put me on hold. FOR FIVE MINUTES!!! When he came back on, the hitch in his voice screamed I was in for a more complex fix – like crawling under the desk to unplug the beast. Finally, much throat clearing later, he said, "Do you have a manager in the office today, Elayne?" I said no and he had the displeasure of telling me I had been terminated.

Obviously, I work in an office, so it's not like the company is in the position to send me packing without following protocol. The big boss had in fact told me the Friday before that I was a good worker and they didn't want to lose me. The techie was prepared for a meltdown after the bomb he'd dropped on me. I could feel it through the fiber optic phone lines. Instead, I laughed and thanked him for helping me out. Then I went right back to the big boss who'd told me the company values my contribution so she could prove it. She got right on it and was promised a two minute fix. They may well have told her the check was in the mail for all their empty promise did. SIX hours later I regained access. For this "accidental termination," their words, not mine, I was given a half-assed apology and no congrats for superseding my daily goals despite being without my tools. Accidents happen, right?

Yesterday I was sent for training in Denver. From where I live, this is an hour-and-a-half drive on a good day. My life philosophy, at least for this week, is plan for the worst and hope for the best. I left my house just after 6 am. I'd got three hours of sleep (a sweet story for another time) and that drive was nothing I was looking forward to. Armed with the largest cup o' Joe I could find and a tank full of gas, I headed north. I made good time – arrived on site at three minutes after eight. That meant I had enough time to finish my homework for that night's class and chill before the seven hour training Eight-fifty rolled by and I didn't see anyone. My boss, who is a stickler for time and was also supposed to be there, wasn't; I got suspicious. I called my home office and reached no one. Nine came and people started arriving at the training site, but they had no clue what I was talking about when I referenced the day's training.

Now, I was pissed. Had I been lead on a wild goose chase? I called the boss and all he could say was "Oops! I thought you knew. Sorry. Hey, why don't you find a computer, log on and work while you wait until 10:30 when the training is scheduled to start." Is it possible to be double-pissed? My co-worker had been given the correct time, so he strolled in all nonchalant. Maybe triple-pissed is a more apt description.

While I was steaming over being misled, my husband called and told me my benefits team called him and said he'd been removed from my waiver list, which meant he was no longer a beneficiary. They were demanding payment for services rendered that should have been covered for anyone listed on my benefits plan. Remember that accidental termination? They told me there wouldn't be backlash for the company's "error." As usual, they lied. I cannot trust someone who lies about the simplest of things, let alone the bigguns.

So what do you think? Is all this a sign or am I reading too much into this?

Send in the Clowns

Have you ever been so alone in a crowd of people that your heart began to cry because it would be too shameful for your eyes to burst in tears?

I feel crazy today. Absolutely out of sorts, in adequate and 50,000 other adjectives that swirl, spiral, cascade negativity. And there's no good reason. This weekend has been amazing I've met authors, agents, editors who buy what I want to sell. They are positive, forthright and honest about what differentiates the mediocre from the fantastic. I don't know where I fit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I fall closer to mediocrity than to being a superior writer. I now this craft is hard, and it's not something one chooses as a hobby.

One writes because the soul doesn't know how to exist apart from the words. One writes because there is no other choice – short of death. My fear of fears is that I have nothing of merit to offer, dear friends. Tell me which writer on this planet has never had this fear! Yet at this moment, it's crippling and discouraging and makes me wonder if I've set myself up to dwell in the 7^th circle of hell the way I set my characters up. At least with them, after I've had my power trip they get a happy ending.

It's a negotiated promise. We sit at the table of my psyche and I promise them that if they trust me, and I mean really trust me, that I will make them happier than they ever thought possible. Yes, I'll take them to the dark moment, and they may have nightmares about it from now 'til eternity, but they will have their silver lining, the rainbow, a fucking parade if it fits the story. Okay, that's chuckle-worthy – a parade.

I was in a parade once – one of those small town homey things where the floats are more like catastrophes piled on the back of a homemade pickup truck. I was already on crutches at the time so I didn't figure anything that would happen aboard Bubba's truck would hurt me. Thankfully, I was right. A memory forgotten and retrieved because for some reason, I needed to remember. Me on a float, and people actually waving to me because I waved at them. People waving at me because they hoped they could catch my attention and that for one second our eyes would meet and I could assuage a drop of the loneliness that tugged at their souls while they stood feeling like I feel today.

Forgettable, un-wantable (I know that's not a word), and totally undeserving of any kind of attention. I hoped I was hiding this from outsiders because it's my private pain and my private shame. I think I was successful. Who knows? Maybe that's why I met an angel in the hall. For you fiction fans, I'm about to give you an exit from the dark moment. Yes, friends, our heroine escapes the mire. A lovely gentleman walked up to me while I was browsing a stand in the hall. He introduced himself to me and invited me to a concert he and some of his friends were doing. You see, they sing the blues, and my man JD plays the trombone. How could I refuse? Maybe he talked to me because he could tell I'm too senseless to avoid getting in conversations with strangers. Don't our parents warn against that? I like to think he was my angel. Maybe my insecurities were leaking and he had a moment to choose between leaving me to figure it out and sending me a lifeboat. Those of you who know me know I'd have got my act together eventually, but I am so glad he came to the rescue.

So today, I challenge you: be lifesavers, see someone – really look into another person's eyes and be willing to feel with them, for them. Be an angel.

Ode to a jerk

So the title is a vain attempt at keepin' it clean here. DH just came in and told me he had to help a sibling resolve a domestic matter, one that will likely end in police reports, drama and dissolve in tears. One of my very good friends pointed out that I have a severe dislike for men, more like a problem respecting them. I have male friends -- always have, always will. But those fellas have earned my respect by not being assholes. And to be frank, I think they are such a small percent of the male population that I don't know that I count them for being male -- other than the obvious differentiating factors. Don't you love how I drop slang, cursing and proper English all in one paragraph? Part of my twisted reality.

Now, this domestic drama my husband has ridden off to help with is one that's been brewing for years, and one technically that shouldn't even be happening. At least that's what the magic of divorce says. No such luck. Apparently, a man who was a dickhead in marriage maintains the propensity to be a dickhead in divorce. So many things I'm learning this week. I never liked the bastard -- not when he hit on me when I was pregnant and not when he found a way to secure time with me alone years later. Men like him are what make me suspicious and hateful. And the terrible thing is I hate who I become when I spend too much of my precious time thinking of these jerks. Abuse is not okay. PERIOD. The people I love are mine, and God help anyone who hurts them.

Jerks of the world, consider yourselves warned.

More coffee, for the love of God!

So once again, I'm behind in my blogging. Sorry, faithful friends. Back in class, back to the grindstone, back to wanting to tear my eyes out! You know they say time flies when you're having fun. Does that mean time sucks ass when you're bored? Should I have warned about gratuitous swearing before letting you read this post? As it's a bit late for that, all I can do is ask for forgiveness.

I've chugged my coffee, am desperate for another cup but I can't now! Argh!

Now, three cups down and I'm hummin'; don't ask me to select one piece of paper from my notebook or to do anything that even remotely requires fine motor skills. I am all hopped up, which means I'm all out of logic, patience, the ability to moderate my behavior. If you're still reading, you do so at your own risk. You've been warned.

So... Picture this... driving down the highway, cruising as you do, a young lady dressed in black discovers a cycle cop aiming a ray gun her way. Now, said young lady stomps her brake, praying that when she and the cop locked eyes that it had been a mere glance. No such luck for our heroine, dear friends. Our, I mean their eyes locked and next she knew, she held a summons for a court appearance in her hand. Who knew doing 71 in a 55 was illegal? Fuckin' A!

Back from the realm of fiction to my current reality.

How does one counteract too much coffee? Wine, of course! I've got two bottles chillin' at home, a gorgeous Merlot and a Gewurztraminer. For those who haven't tried the latter, come on over! It's one of two whites I can drink without suffering heartburn. Or maybe of the two whites I will gladly suffer heartburn for. So here I sit, Merlot by my side, typing away at my blog. I'm tired and avoiding thinking about next week's assignments and the weeks to come. The big picture is awesome-- the grande finale of all the effort. But it's the details that will get me there. How much is that like writing a novel?

I'm such a big picture person that I sometimes have difficulty presenting the details. Those can be glossed over, right? WRONG! The details are what transcend a flat character to the full-blown friends I've found between many books' covers. So I know one of the things I should work on. What about you? Do you see the big picture, or is life all about the details?