A peek inside the mind of man

Here's my disclaimer before I even take a ride down this street: This blog relates to the guys I know, so the behaviors/actions/whatever I describe may not be typical.

Last night, I got to spend time with some great folks. Granted, it was a bit heavy with guys at first, but I was there with my girl so it was all good. How do I know these people, you may ask. Well, mostly through the former job and school. These guys are so awesome. For one, they kept an immaculate apartment. You see what I mean about being atypical? Once we got around to conversing, I learned things I didn't expect about the other sex. Men feel more than I gave them credit for. They want to be in committed relationships and are in favor of the old stick 'n move as much they enjoy root canals. Okay, so sometimes stick 'n move works but they really do want to have one special person who will care for them forever. They idolize their moms, and call them repeatedly just because they love them. And you know what? They know they've been dumb at times (with their parental units) and they actually admit it to their parents. Even though their friendships differ from ours, they are dead loyal and care for each other as much as women care for their friends. And have I mentioned they like the ladies with intellect? Stupid and hot will only take a girl so far with these fellas.

Who'd have thunk it? Now, as I approach my writing, I have to consider these things. It would be more than unfair for me to fill my stories with callous jerks. Not that those don't exist. I've met more of them than I care to recall. My buds give me hope that happily-ever-after isn't a myth. I know these guys will make fantastic spouses one day, and I can't wait to see them find bliss with people who are equally fantastic.

Good times, rough reads

One of my nearest and dearest friends had exciting news this week. Kay, you know who you are!!! Her screenplay, one that I was dead lucky to read, was optioned! Yea!!! For those of you, who like me have minimal knowledge of the screenwriter's path, think of optioning as selling to an editor. This is big time, and I am so proud of her accomplishments and glad to skim the circle of greatness that surrounds her. Let me tell you though, this has been no easy road for her, nor is this the endpoint. She's worked diligently. Always writing, always producing, editing and doing the things someone who claims to be a writer must do. Have I mentioned how proud I am of her yet? I am looking forward to seeing great things for this lady, and you know I'll keep you posted on her success.

In Elayne's world, I'm still waiting to hear from the agent on my manuscript. I still have a week or so left before I should hear back, so I'm chilling for the moment. Tonight, I opened the suspense manuscript that was requested at the September conference. It needed more clean up and still does, but I made it through about 80 pages. Something that hit me in the midst of edits was how much I genuinely love this story. The characters are solid, and with touching up, I've made my heroine more transparent and relateable. My hero is still a hottie, and I heartily admit to being a little in lust with the guy. Isn't that the point, though? I've written dribbles on the current project -- don't know what else to say on that score.

All I know is I'm exhausted and sapped of creative juices. Tomorrow is supposed to be a fun day -- fall party with the old workmates. I adore them, so I know I will have a blast. But I'm so tired now I feel like an old lady. For the celebration, I made one of my infamous cheesecakes. Going with the fall theme, it's pumpkin gingerbread. It smells amazing, and I'm not too humble to admit it's one of the best looking cheesecakes I've made in a little while. Hopefully, everyone enjoys it. Okay, I'm pushing against stone here. I'm going to take my butt to bed, but not before sharing about my recent reading experiences.

I just finished a book by a local author that I'm hedging about. The premise was interesting. Sorry, I won't share the concept or title here, but you can ask me in person if you're that curious. What bugs me about the book is the bland writing. In fiction, I expect more interesting prose and imagery. I want to read something that sticks to me like the drippy caramel from a freshly dipped caramel apple. That's not the case here, and I am so disappointed. On one hand, I celebrate the author's ability to garner the attention of an agent and editor -- to get her work on the shelves. On the other hand, I wonder what it is that the experts saw in the book. A title does not a book make, and after all, the publishing house probably changed the title anyway. But I can say this in all certainty, I've never seen the subject matter therein presented in contemporary material as it was in this work.

Maybe I'm jaded because I'm looking through romance eyes. That happens more often than I care to admit, my being biased because I've been steeped in one genre before leaping to another. I will have to re-read and re-evaluate. I am currently reading a paranormal romance. Again, a local author, and again a bit disappointing. The words/world/concept seem too closely related to so many others I've read before. In this author's defense, I really like the characters. So much so that if I LOVE the ending, I will read the rest of the series. All this weighs on my mind. How can I like one book so much that I'm willing to invest more of my time when the other made me wonder who I could pawn it off on?

I guess it all boils down to characterization. The characters in the first book I mentioned were AWFUL. I hated all of them and had the most terrible time trying to figure out who to cheer for or align my support with. They were all pretty wicked except for the one who ended up dead, and she wasn't stellar but I could at least understand her behavior. I don't think a re-read will change my perception of that, but I'll give it a few months and give it another go. Have you ever read or watched something that left you feeling empty at the end? How did you handle the disappointment?

Things a mom doesn't want to know

So by now you all know I have a pre-teen male child. I still remember changing this boy's diapers, for God sake. Well, dear friends, he ain't in diapers anymore. DH came down to my dungeon to tell me he'd just found my Vickie's Secrets catalogue safely ensconced in said male child's bed. It's no secret that my husband and I have different ideas about all sorts of things, human sexuality included. He was having fits about our son "using" my catalogue. I laughed. It's all about the cycle of life, isn't it? And as long as I don't end up a way-too-young grandma, I'm content to let him do what needs doing.

We talk about sex in my house. I can't say I enjoy broaching the subject with my boys, but the thought of babies making babies is so much less appealing. Looks like I get to have a talk with him about self-pleasure. Goody, goody gumdrops. Hints and/or suggestions from the crowd? I don't want to leave him scarred for life like I was.

As to the writing ... things have been too good to be true. The KIA Marathon over at RWAOL is in full swing, and because I can't let my team down I've been a writing fool. My characters are so grateful. But here's the thing. I've come to a place where the person I thought would be dead is looking like he might stay alive. These people have taken on a life of their own. Isn't that always the way? So now I'm here trying to figure out what in the world is going on. My goal at the end of the month is to have 20K words complete on this manuscript. That means I have 12,000 to go. 48 pages. I can do it. I'll keep you posted.

On other fronts, I just finished Susan Elizabeth Phillips' Ain't She Sweet. If you haven't read her, what in the world are you waiting for? This was such a beautiful story; I was heartbroken to see it end. Perhaps it was the Mississippi setting that got to me since I lived in Biloxi for a year. Certainly, her way of crafting multi-dimensional characters pulls you through the story. I felt as though I knew those people, and in some cases felt as though SEP had stolen my angsty teen diary. No wonder she's on the NYT Bestsellers list. Now, all I have to do is figure out why I loved that book so much and get my writing up to par. Small task that. Ri-i-ight!!!

What have you read lately that's made you take notice?

All night long...

Don't get excited. I'm not channeling our good buddy Lionel Ritchie. Just lamenting my Thursday night obligation. With these four hours I will spend tonight, I could be writing all the pages that need done to meet this week's goal. Holy hell! Ten frikken pages. I've written a total of two paragraphs. Instead of writing my blog I should be thinking about my characters, but here I sit.

My mind spirals with all the stuff I don't do or am really and truly too chickenshit to attempt. Why is rejection so hard to deal with? Why is it so much easier to pretend that everything is grand than to jump? It's the question of the unknown. I need to know what's going to happen. I'm not one of those folks who's into surprises -- good or otherwise. Surprises make me nervous. The crazy thing is that I will do almost anything on a whim or a dare. I LOVE spontaneity. I LOVE doing what feels right in an instant, and I'm never surprised by what I decide to do. But I can't cope with not knowing the outcomes of other people's impact on my life.

You know you've been there. Remember the guy you were crushing on in high school? You liked him so much it actually hurt your heart. It thumped so hard in your chest when he passed within three feet of you. No matter how intelligent you were, all grasp of reason, thought -- hell, LANGUAGE, left you because he was just in the vicinity. But never would you talk to him. Never would you approach him with the idea of pursuing a relationship beyond that longing glance across the hallway. And why? Because at this point, you have something. Even if it's unrequited love, lust or passion, it's enough to sustain you. There's hope in embracing that bit of chickendom because at least, you can fantasize that he could one day be yours. When you see him with another girls, you'll even tell yourself that he's only involved with said chickadee because he can't muster the courage to talk to you. And THAT feels good.

One day, you decide to grow a set of balls. Maybe you borrowed them from a friend or took them down from the jar on the shelf. It doesn't matter. You wait until he's alone, shuffling your books because you must have something to do with your hands. And finally after much throat-clearing, you take the plunge. You ask him to do something -- maybe going out for a burger or something -- and he makes an excuse. He doesn't want to go out with you. He has friends, sports, whatever that's more important than you are in that instant. The bell rings, and there you are still holding your books. Now, you want to cry in that hall. You want to curl into a ball and die, or if God truly was merciful, He'd allow the floor to swallow you to spare you from the hurt and mortification.

There's no mercy. You have to pick up the shards of your heart and move on. It hurts, and the pain doesn't stop. Yeah, it dulls or else how would anyone be able to survive? We do. The hurt makes us strong; the pain lets us know we're alive. And we plod along. If you're like me, you take that sliced up part of your heart and vow to NEVER let anyone do that to you again. The problem with my philosophy is that eventually, you run out of heart. You cover yourself in callouses and bullshit so no hurt can enter. But you know what? No love enters either. Trust me on this, it's a shitty way to live.

Tell me, dear friends, what do you do with hurt? And is there any way to remove the crust from your heart without employing one of those scraper things? Help a girl out!

TSTL

Think about it for a moment. What do those letters mean? Is it another stupid acronym that will mean nothing to you tomorrow? Gosh, I hope not.

For those outside the romance writing world, TSTL means Too Stupid to Live. Lest anyone take offense, I'm not talking about anyone in particular -- or at least not you in particular -- unless, of course, you fit the criteria. One of the things writers rage against as they put pencil to paper is creating a heroine that makes the reader want to thrust the book at a wall and stomp on it madly. I sure as heck don't want my readers to get their sole pleasure in reading my work to come from a not-so-random act of violence committed against the paper and binding. Sometimes, though, don't you meet those people, the stupid ones I mean, and wonder how in God's name they survive from one day to the next? I know I do. And I would love to gloat and count myself amongst the intelligent ones. Those famed few who never fall prey to making the wrong decisions or hurting people because they are not grown up enough to do the right thing in the first place.

But I have to confess here and now. Today, and I am sure there are more days in my future, I joined the ranks of idiocy. You know what's terrible about the "dumb club" is that they're always looking for new members. Their list is never too full. Wouldn't it be great if there was a cap? Sorry, Elayne, we're too full this time around, so you're going to have to make the right choice, do the right thing. Unfortunately for me, no one says this aloud. And I've gotten so good in my old age at stomping down the still, quiet voice that I can numb myself to right and warmly embrace wrong. An old friend of mine would call this a case of loud and wrong. What's interesting about loud and wrong is that it's not an all or nothing deal. For example, I could be 90% right in my anger, frustration and motivation, but that leftover 10% can and WILL screw me every time. What's a girl to do?

We rage against these people when they show up in books. And God help us if they pop up on-screen. Been to a movie lately and screamed at the hussy who decided to run from the monster deep in the woods armed with nothing but her good looks, skimpy lingerie and some damned high-heeled shoes? Who does that? We get upset because it is so clear what they ought to do. Take off the flippin' heels, put on some damned clothes and don't trip over the tree roots. See, that was easy! But how hard is it when you're confronted with Mr. Right Enough and Mr. Right On? How much more difficult is it when it's about keeping your temper or flipping out because someone dared show fallibility?

For you aspiring authors, this is the tip of the iceberg. I promise. Your characters will do something so stupid you will want to give them a boot to the head. Guaranteed! The people you love will fail and hurt you so badly you will want to abdicate from the human race. The question is what are you gonna do about it. Will you be smart enough to trust that the people in your life, be they tangible or fictional, will do what is right? Or will you be like me, lining up in the ranks of the TSTL? As Captain Planet would say, "The power is yours!"

Homecoming revealed

I went on so much about Homecoming yesterday, and totally forgot to share what happened. My college buddy and I went to the game a little late because I had some minor drama at home. Drama in my house takes only a few forms and centers around either my husband or the boys. I guess on more fun occasions, all of them gang up on me to drive me to crazy town. With as much time as I spend there, I've got frequent visitor rights. But I digress. No, I'll share the drama because it's all a part of the story.

My eldest has decided to skirt his chores. Nothing major or abnormal for an almost teenager. By the way, I got told today that I am hip for being a mom. Dude! How cool is that? Anyway, I was having folks over Friday, and while the house wasn't a mess, there was definite work that needed done if I was going to have company. I arrived home at six to find that my kitchen was wrecked -- dishes piled, the floors a rubbish heap, and the trash overflowing. My eldest tried to run the "I love you, Mom" scam on me. Complete with hug. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't wearing my BooBoo the Fool sticker. So while I appreciated his love, he was going to do the cleaning he'd skipped out on.

I had him start on the dishes while I changed into my cleaning clothes. You know the ones that are only good for working with bleach and NEVER for being worn in public. Oh yeah, I was a real hottie Friday night. I had just slipped into my gear when I heard my husband shout that grandpa was at the door so my son had to leave. I ran out of my room screaming that he shouldn't be rewarded for sneakiness by getting to leave for the Homecoming game early. My husband told me not to worry. Our son would come home and do all his chores. Right. After I was done doing all the work. Not a huge surprise that I was pretty pissed.

I started working and then my youngest came out of his room sans glasses. Of course, I asked where they were and he told me he'd lost them at recess. I just bought those glasses. When I asked my husband why he hadn't told me about the missing glasses, he said he hadn't noticed. I've got one word for you. RAGE! His concession was to send the little one out to the school to find them. Somewhere in the midst of all this chaos, my friend arrived. I'm so sorry, Patricia!

Fast forward to the game. Yes, more family drama ensued, but I'm going to leave it in the past where it belongs. My friend found us seats, and I was stoked about being able to watch the game and one of the hottest football coaches I've ever seen. Hey, before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, I'm married, not dead! And until my eyes stop working, I will appreciate beauty in all its many forms -- especially if it involves said coach. I need to freeze frame here to make sure the rest of this little tirade makes sense. Sorry, folks.

My friend and I went to a high school football game a while ago with another good buddy. After that game, I developed a reputation for being rowdy. I honestly have no clue how that all got started. Jeez, you get a little participative at a game and next thing you know, you're castigated for getting into the game. No fights broke out, and we all had a good time so nothing else matters.

So, back to this past Homecoming. My friend and I had great seats -- until we got kicked out of them. Lest you get too excited or think I am exciting, we didn't do anything outrageous to lose our seats. All the empty spots we found had been reserved for the band. Shucks. It was a blow-out for our school at any rate, so we retreated to my place for chili and the first season of Coupling. After all the day's drama, chilling out was just what I needed.

Now that it's nearly at an end, what did you do this weekend?

Good times

It's official. Yes, I know I gave my notice a while ago, and Friday was my last day at the job but it didn't feel real until last night. An amazing send off with some of the best people in the world. And hey, there was karaoke involved. Can you tell me what would have been better? Actually, there are some things that could have been pleasant additions, but I'll keep those to myself -- fodder for the fiction. So after a great night out, why the hell did I wake at 7:30? The weekend is for sleeping and being lazy, yet I sprung from bed like I had somewhere to be. The real shame of it is that 7:30 is sleeping in for me.

Usually, I'm moving too fast to see my morning as anything more than a blur. Today, I remember my first thought. It's over. Are any of you performers? You know that feeling you get when you're waiting in the wings. Trapped between wanting to chicken out and being so excited that if you were a puppy, there would be a big ole wet spot in your seat. That's how I feel right now. Why? I have a manuscript in the hands of an agent. I am no longer a full-time employee for anyone or anywhere. And in 2008, I will be a licensed teacher. Parents will put their children in my trust and expect me to give them something. I keep wondering what will happen when I get my class. Will I stand in front of a room of freshmen and totally forget why I'm there?

When I subbed last year, except for when I was in the elementary schools, I didn't actually teach. And I never worked in my content area. When I finish this degree, students and their parents will have the right to expect me to know what I'm talking about. One thing I am immensely grateful for is the amazing set of colleagues I've met in class. All of us aspire to be in the classroom working with secondary level students. Most of us will do really well, too. I just wonder how many of my mates are sitting around with their stomachs churning. Waiting in the wings, as it were.

But it's definitely good times. My friends can hear the lightness in my voice when I talk. My best friend told me I sound the best I have in months. So much for me trying to ride undercover. I tried so hard to keep my shit storm from raining on those around me. Guess I'll buy everyone bigger umbrellas next time. Yeah, there will be a next time because there will always be people in the world who will work to screw you over even as you're trying to keep your head above water. It's all good though because I needed the reminder to take care of me. I was being everything for everyone but Elayne. My martyrdom ceased at 5:00 last Friday afternoon.

Okay, I'm off to write and finish off my breakfast of onion dip and potato chips. I'll be back, and I'll try to sound as elated as I feel. Tell me, folks, what do you do to take care of yourself?

Zoned out

You can say I'm wrong, but some people -- maybe it's just the sound of their voices -- make my ears want to take leave from my head. I know I say this often. Actually, every time I start a new class. Good grief! Isn't there a way to absorb necessary materials via diffusion or osmosis? Forget calling me wrong. Call me tired, impatient, frustrated and excited about the weekend. Can you say Homecoming? Not mine, but that of my DH. Funny thing is he's not nearly as excited as I am about the game. In fact, he's almost dismal. I listened to a rant about how Homecoming is not what it used to be. It's about the alumni returning -- not about dances and parties and God knows what. Three minutes into his rant, my brain glazed. I could feel that nasty-looking red jelly stuff people insist on pouring over ham, oozing over every brain cell.

Have you ever felt like that? It seems to happen on a weekly basis nowadays. Every Thursday to be exact. And in no time flat, I'm back to bitching. Husbands always wonder how wives do it. I'm telling you here and now, it's a gift.

Got another question for you. What is the world's record for one person monopolizing four hours of class time? Bet Guinness doesn't have the stats.

Counting down

Not much time left at the present job, and I am so happy. The pressure to finish all my tasks in time so as not to leave my esteemed colleagues holding the bag is immense. Something I've learned from blogging is how public it is. Yes, I know I put myself out here. I have no intention of going back to my little box, but I feel like I've left my butt flapping in the wind. Kind of reminds me of the time one of my friends paraded through church with the back of her skirt tucked into her pantyhose. I had no idea of her plight because she and I were walking side by side, but her embarrassment when someone righted the situation still haunts me. So much so that I never leave the lavatory without making sure that all my business is covered. But once the world has seen your behind, it's too late to cover it. So I will plunge ahead -- glad that I have no shame about that aspect of self. I guess it's good that everything I've spewed here is true.

On the writing front, I'm feeling pressured to produce. I'm a committed participant of the KIA Marathon over at RWA Online. What I do or fail to do impacts my team's success. It's not a competition against the others, but more of a challenge against my will, my laziness and a chance to demonstrate to myself the level of commitment I have to my craft. Tonight I wrote, and in all honesty, I could write more but am afraid. Bet you knew that was coming. I don't want to write crap. I want to be happy when I open the doc tomorrow, so I will stop while I'm ahead. Told you I'm a chicken.

The day's been long. Filled with baking, observing and working, so I am off to bed with a GREAT book, The Alchemist. It's been a while since I've felt able or even worthy to read the book. Please, if you haven't read it, do. It makes me want to revert to childhood. In a good way! Children know what their dreams are. They don't allow themselves to be constrained by the slavery of shoulds or can'ts. Children dream unabashedly, unashamedly, without fear. That is how we are supposed to be! Living without fear, not merely existing because existence is the easiest course of action. So I will revisit childhood dreams, weep for denying them a fair chance and working to create sense from the senseless.

What did you want to be as a child? Who did you want to be? And what's stopped you from doing it?

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?

The wood between worlds

Ten points to anyone who figures out the allusion referenced in the title. Don't ask me where you can use the points, though!

Normally, I write my blog in class. Today's Tuesday, so no class. Yet, here I am. I'm in one of those places where I don't know quite what to feel. As though my feelings need definition or permission to come out. How presumptuous of me to think so! I should be tired... and I am, but not mind-numbingly exhausted, though I think I should be. I'm still on my routine -- observing classroom behavior, going to work, coming home. Schoolwork fits in there somewhere, but there's no defined space. Days are long. So why am I still awake? Maybe because instead of blogging, I wrote a few paragraphs on the new manuscript.

A few paragraphs on bell-ringing. Almost in a Pavlovian sense, in that when a bell sounds, we expect to move. Perhaps to a new thing or whatever. We American students of a certain age equate that happy buzz with getting to the next class. We know we have mere minutes to get from point A to point B. Every step is calculated -- down to the potty break between classes. The snaking tentacles of that noise touches teachers too. A new set of faces and the drama that accompanies change. In my story, the bell is for the teachers. It never sounds when students are in school because these students are la creme de la creme and don't need anything as trite as a bell to signal them to move on. I don't know if this is going to remain an element in my book, but it's there today. For my heroine, it's a signal of mounting discontent -- a signal that she needs change. A theme, if you will. Mind you, she's never been afraid of change but it was much easier to roll with the punches when she wasn't under her mom's watchful eye.

Let's recap. So far, I've told you it's a multi-cultural cast with a drop dead sexy implant from England. They work at a posh school in C-Springs, as some of my dear co-workers call my new hometown. And there's a murder. I'm excited and nervous about where these folks will take me. I want to write so bad, but in my scant snatches of time that's just not possible. Yes, I know I could be writing that now instead of the blog but that takes more mental power than I have at the moment.

My question to you, dear readers is what is your bell? What is your signal to move onward and upward? And how do you respond to the buzz? Does it niggle at you and create a stirring of resentment or do you formulate a plan to use that few minutes between classes to do something productive? Inquiring minds and all...

Garscon! Some cheese with my whine please!

I'm exhausted.

And I have only myself to blame. Last night, my DH decided he wanted to go out to eat. He was happy and wanted to celebrate, and honestly, what better way to celebrate than to eat? Enter the whine... Now, I work late and I had a term paper to finish. How in hell did I finish the first Master's? I told DH about my workload, but he wanted so much to go out. I figured I could lose an hour and still get to bed by midnight.

Yeah. How 'bout no! I lost three prime hours of study time. THREE frikken hours! And then DH said he was tired. Those of you who've met me know I'm a little bit crazy. When we're having a good time, crazy translates to fun. When I get angry, I'm a true nutbag. I snap. My head spins and DH swears I speak foreign languages. Well, I spoke Greek last night, boy. Little ears were around so I wasn't speaking advanced Greek, but DH got an earful.

Then I got to go downstairs and work on my paper. And that is the extent of my writing for the last two weeks. I've thought about my books and I even think I know who my murderer is and who's the victim. That excites me so much I may forgo an hour or two of sleep just to get those scenes down. Then again, maybe not.

What do you do when Mr. or Ms. Jekyll pays a visit? Maybe the better question is what do your loved ones do? I got my murderer out of it, so maybe I should thank my husband for taking me to crazy town. Can you write angry?

Who shall I be when I grow up?

The last post was absolutely dismal. I make no apologies as it was honest, but man alive, I hate being depressing! So what's new on the writer front? Another rejection. The last I had out. It was a nice rejection. Of course, I have yet to receive one that says don't quit your day job. Instead of ranting and whining about why I suck, I sent out more queries. This writing business, and I do mean business, is a test of resilience. I am getting excited about the coming conference in November. I can't wait to leave work and do something that's all about me. All the weekends of overtime were killing me, and I've got more ahead, but instead of those hours equating to extra groceries or gas money that money will be dedicated to my coming excursions. After all, writing and sci-fi conferences don't pay for themselves!

On the work front, besides the overtime, I'm still vacillating between hating it and being in like. I spend more time with my workmates than I do my family, and as a mom that's difficult for me. Two sides of myself are fighting at all times and I don't know how to reconcile them. I work with people who plan prospective children around the peak seasons at work. Since I have only one planned child, to say I don't understand that sort of calculation is an understatement. As I drove to work this morning, I thought about my life and realized I've been a mom forever. Now, we all know this isn't true, but there aren't too many memories I have that aren't about or involving my children. I think I will be the most boring person alive when I don't have little people to cook for or admonish/cajole into cleaning their rooms. Sure, I can maintain my fledgling career as a karaoke diva but that will only take me so far. Eventually, people will stop indulging my need to be on stage.

Without a life and the people who propel me forward, what kind of writer will I be? One of those who writes dry books even I don't want to read. Good grief! So I'll have to do something amazingly interesting that will fuel stories for years to come. Recommendations anyone?

Moving forward

My apologies for this incoherent post. My mind is Swiss cheese, so read at your own peril...

The writer's life is a difficult one. In the past month, I've dealt with death and disappointment. The latter stemming from both a lack of writing and more rejection. Yep, the dreaded R's came through the PO box this week. Yes, I'm disappointed by the turn-downs, but I'm even more disappointed in myself for not writing as much as I would have liked. What's funny is that I don't know when I could have squeezed the novel writing in. Between the school work and work work? Going to school is my bridge to the future I desire, so the papers must be done. Work pays the bills, so I can't exactly give that up either.

I'm running out of agents to query. All my faves have returned rejections. I know they are busy, but I can't help wishing I knew why. There are so many BRILLIANT writers out there whose work faces the same fate as mine. I know realistically my dream may never find fulfillment, yet I write. I can't stop, but I wonder if I should just focus on my day job. I think my writing is good, but I'm biased, aren't I? My husband say my last book, well the book before last, is good. He's flabbergasted as to why no one wants to see more of my work. His support is beyond nice because I know he won't lie to me. He told me pretty plain out that my first book sucked. I was okay with that. Maybe not okay because it was the book of my heart, but it is so skewed and un-ready for publication. I appreciate his honesty, and maybe one day I'll re-work the book and it will be the YA novel I envisioned it to be. For now, I'm focusing on moving forward and trying not to get swamped in the mires of PMS.

I am tired of rejection. I get it everyday at the job and I get it from people in the world I so desperately want to be part of. Life would be so much easier if I could give up and accept the fate that the Universe seems to be dealing me. Why do I have to be stubborn? I wanted to go to my writing conference this year. Finally, it looks as though that might not be a dream but reality. My dear husband finally got a job. I will have money to go-- to pay for last minute plane tickets and the conference fee even. But what do I have to offer? I feel like I should be able to present something if I go. It dawned on me that since the last conference, I have written another book. I do have something to show for my year. I started writing the third book on the plane home from that conference in fact. I've tried to avoid looking at the conference website because I didn't want to get excited for nothing. I am excited though. Maybe everyone will hate it as much as the last. Maybe someone will love it and want to see more. I don't know. What I do know is that if I don't give myself a chance, I'll be in the same place I am now. Wondering what I should do with my life. Wondering what I'll be when I grow up. I hate not knowing. So Miss Julie, it looks like I will see you in November. If for no other reason than to touch the energy of people like myself -- writers who write because that is simply what they do.

That stupid inner voice is telling me to give up. To switch jobs because deep down I want to be venerated and loved by the people I deal with. To stop writing toward publication because who in hell would actually want to read my books. To just plain give up. Maybe I'm too stubborn or too stupid to listen. I can't stop writing. The job may go but I won't fight the writing diva. Last week I wrote half of my first chapter and I was excited about the book. I have no idea where it's going, but I'm excited because it was fun and the release I needed. The release the characters needed. I don't know where to query, and I keep seeing the words of the contest judge who told me the time for my story is now. I cling to that response because that judge is in the industry and knows what's hot. At the same time, I have to wonder why none of the agents agree. Perhaps it's a case of querying the wrong people at the wrong time. I'm spinning my wheels here, folks! I have one query out. A query to a publishing house. God, I would feel vindicated if they said they wanted to see more!

I feel so fortunate to know writers who've stood on the crux of success, bearing the weight of sticking with their day job and writing. Those who have stuck with it through the disappointment and moved forward are now enjoying fulfillment as real published writers. It could be that my last book is the one that connects with agents, publishers and the reading public. Maybe the book before last is destined for dust bunny heaven like the first. Who knows? But I will never get even a semblance of a clue by remaining sequestered in four walls... or my cubicle at work, or any confined space. I'm afraid, but I'm moving forward. So what do you say, dear readers? What do you do when facing life change? Advice, anyone? I'm in desperation here!