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!

Death stinks

Just got back from a funeral. God, I wish people didn't have to die. The older I get the worse it is. My husband's uncle and his great aunt died this week. Today was his uncle's farewell, and next week will be his aunt's. His uncle was too young; his kids were too young to have to go through it too. I sat there, watching them cry and it reminded me of my dad's death. I felt too young to have to do everything--to plan a funeral and handle all the stuff that goes with death. I didn't cry when my dad died because there wasn't time for tears. I couldn't afford a meltdown. So today I cried for them as much as for myself. I know time is supposed to heal all hurts, but honestly all it does is cover them in more stuff so the pain isn't so sharp.

To Terry. A man I wish I'd been able to know better. Happy trails... until we meet again.

A pie, a cake and four dozen cookies later...

I know, I know. Another crazy title, but this one is relevant. Promise! First off, happy Independence Day! Today I'm off. You probably guessed that from the title of this blog. Tomorrow, I may still be off mentally, but I will have my behind firmly planted in my chair at work. A lot has happened in the past week, so let me explain. No, I will sum up.

The day after I did my encore grad school performance (yeah, I know it will be another year, but I'm feeling silly, so I hope you'll roll with me), our office had a sports day. I call myself the old bat of the office. Everyone there is like thirteen. They've got crayons and dollies while I've got 50,000 kids. Ah, the disparity! They tell me I'm not old, but they're just saying that so I will keep slipping them coffee. I know the truth.

Anyway, back to sports day. I'd talked a lot of trash with my co-workers, sent emails to incite a blood bath between our north and south locations. The irony wasn't lost on me. We were scheduled for basketball, volleyball, corn holers and something else I'm sure. I don't play basketball, never been good at it. Volleyball, on the other hand, is my sport from back in the day. The only problem was one of my co-workers, the one who is a volleyball coach, chose to be on the other team. I got serious. So serious in fact that I will have new scars to prove it. After my trip to the doctor yesterday, I'm in much less pain. The doc said I don't get paid to dive, but the nurse told me to keep having fun. Guess which option I'm choosing!

What does this have to do with the dessert menu masquerading as a blog title today? Nothing if you think in a linear pattern, but tangential thinkers will appreciate this. Last weekend saw me armed with cheesecake and a gorgeous strawberry topping for a bridal shower. This almost weekend, I'm headed to my father-in-law's armed with goodies. He and my mother-in-law are hosting a potluck 4th party. Of all the things they know I cook, and I am an awesome cook, my FIL requested something patriotic--like chocolate cake.

Chocolate cake? That's not patriotic. I told him (through my husband) that I would make apple pie. Mom, baseball and apple pie. See, good ole American values. What my dear FIL and MIL don't know is that I'm bringing a chocolate cake and the awesome cookies DH stayed up baking. And I wonder why the nephews are always trying to come over to eat! Every weekend has come with a bigger and better dessert. What in the world will happen next week? I mean, seriously, how do I top cake, cookies and pie? And Cool Whip is not an option!

How are you planning to celebrate your independence?

Backpack, backpack

Have I lost my mind? Of course not, dear friends! Tonight was my first night back in school. Nope, one master's degree wasn't enough. Your nearest and dearest author-desperately-seeking-publication (okay, one of your nearest and dearest) is on the road to a master's in education--secondary to be specific. No snickering allowed. I love the classroom! And I'm a damn good teacher, too. The only thing I lack is certification, so off I go!

It's been a long time since I've sat at a desk, next to my peers, listening to lecture while fighting to stay awake. None of the activity is boring. Quite the contrary. Tonight, I've discovered what the hero for my next book looks like. He sits across from me with hair so dark it's almost black and eyes like the ocean as it rolls into Haunauma Bay.

For those of you with more delicate sensibilities, you may want to avoid the next sentence or two. The next book opens with violence. Well, partial nudity and violence. But, dear friends, that little instance of violence is the flash introduction of our hero and heroine. [We now return to our scheduled programming]

Right now, she is a healthy-sized girl (woman)., one with curves who isn't exactly trying to lose them. He is dreamy, and not the type she'd expect to find even remotely attracted to her. All I'll say for now is HOT. And yes, it was imperative that it be in all caps. I'm back to a multi-cultural cast, unlike my last book. And the characters will have to overcome their differences to make what's fantasy oh-so-real. Yeah, somewhere in there, there will be a crime or life-threatening situation they must battle as well, but I haven't worked that out as of yet. I will have to keep you posted.

Should I be mildly embarrassed that I wrote this blog in the middle of lecture this evening? I'm not in the least, I assure you. My fellow classmates watched me scribe furiously, probably thinking I'm some sort of overachiever. If only they knew. What do you get up to when people around you think you're working?

Fasten your seatbelts...

This is a blog about absolutely nothing. You see, I'm sitting here, eyes barely open from my late nights and early mornings, debating over whether or not I should eat. Oh, I don't want just anything, folks. I want a hamburger. Please don't ask me why because I can't answer that question for myself. It just sounds good to me. Almost as good as crawling (climbing, actually) into my giant bed for 50 hours of sleep. Wine just isn't cutting it.

The problem is if I cook, it could cause my husband an ego hit. He made dinner, which smelled a little charred when I came home an hour late from work. I love what he made--black-eyed peas--but I want something different. This is probably a lame excuse to avoid writing. I'll admit it. If I felt more awake, I might actually muster the energy to feel guilty about that. As it stands, guilt ain't on the menu tonight.

I did a classic no-no last night and opened an old manuscript for kicks. Yet again, I've discovered a personal flaw. I have no clue how to describe my stories. Like writing them isn't enough. Did you hear that sigh? As a solution to this newly discovered issue, I asked a co-worker who does not at all read in my genre to read my 2nd book with the purpose of telling me what she thinks the story's about.

I asked her first, didn't just dump the 400 pages on her lap. She was actually excited, poor thing! Last we spoke about it, she said the beginning of my book "totally captivated" her. Now, I'd told her to be brutal with me before she even agreed to read. After all, my goal is publication, not a pat on the head. I'm curious to know what she'll say about all the rest. This experience is sort of like querying agents. You want to know what they're going to say, but you can't ask because that goes against established mores. Instead, you wait for the slip of paper to arrive in the mail. Yes, I need to see more, or the more common big fat NO. There go those pins and needles...

Balance

Yeah, I'm learning. This has been quite the test. Moving, becoming the breadwinner, and trying to maintain a vise-grip on my title as domestic goddess. Somewhere in there, I fit in writing and a dash of fun to keep my life in check. Invariably, I slip somewhere. Guess where it's been lately? My poor blog has been so neglected.

The writing has been fun. I'm filling in the middle, and it's not terrible. In fact, I learned something. My manuscript is nearly finished. I thought I had two chapters to go, but I'm wrapping it up now. There's nothing more to be said, no more poor horse to continue beating. A few more pages, and my characters will have shared as much of their story that they're going to. The good news is we're all okay with that. Soon, I'll begin a whole new round of queries, and maybe this story will tickle the fancy of those who couldn't feel the last one.

Each story is practice. An exercise of the imagination and skill. That's what I need to remember. If you'd asked me years ago if I even thought I could finish a story, I'd have told you no. I had gobs of ideas, but I never believed that I could actually do it. Yet, I never stopped writing. I just never finished. Fast forward, and I have 2.9 finished books under my belt. In each, the theme feels the same, but the stories are very different. How could I have doubted myself? Easy. I let fear be my guide. And what a treacherous guide fear was!

Fear choked my confidence. Stopped me from sharing my passion with others--even loved ones. Fear choked my hard-drive with incomplete novels, which only proved to serve that fear was right. So what pushed me forward? I'm still trying to solve that puzzle. A large part of overcoming for me had to have been finding a group of folks trekking the same trail. I won't be so PC as to say all of these people were helpful or had pure designs, but they did know what I suffered. Sadly, some of them chose to sit on the trail while others plodded on. Hiding their fourteen manuscripts under the bed, taking them out only to beat those of us in the single digits over the head when opportunity availed.

I took the beating and learned from it. More than not to trample on others' hopes, too. I've figured out that all of us who call ourselves writers do so with varying levels of purpose. There was a time I was just proud to finish a book. Publication was almost non-existent on my goal radar. I don't know when that changed. All I know is my intention changed. The burning that inspired me to write in the first place swelled to an inferno pointing me to see my work on bookshelves. Allow me to indulge some relativism here. I don't think any of these perspectives are wrong. Some of us bike the path, some will run, drive, wind sail; and some of us need to sit and take a break. It's all good. This is a journey that seems to be more about the why than the how.

What's your take? My feelings won't be hurt if you tell me I'm just blowing smoke, but I sure am curious. Happy trails ;)

Part Deux

Okay, so it wasn't all crap. I wrote, edited and did what needed to be done. Those folks at Nike give great advice--Just Do it! I still don't know how exactly I'm going to get my character from curry to blood smeared hands, but it will happen. There are a few things stirring in my brain. Let's just hope they make it to paper before they leak onto my pillows as I sleep. Nighty-night, folks! And happy, happy writing!

Long time, no blog

Jeez Louise! It has been a long time. Just about a week, and no I'm in my house all alone because DH and the minions have gone to Denver for the day. I should be writing now, doing all the things I've wanted to do for an age amidst the peace and quiet. And I'm afraid to open my manuscript. What if I don't have anything worth saying? What if my characters revolt and refuse to show up to play? Sometimes I wonder if I'm even cut out for the writing business. Like I said, Jeez Louise! I don't think I can call this writer's block. Hell, I'd have to open the manuscript, wouldn't I?

I've never stood down to any challenge, so I guess that means I'll open my book and write it. Can you hear the sigh? It was one of those big chest-heaving ones. Okay. Here I go. Wish me luck!

Rejection

Yes, the dreaded "R" word. And I've got lots of experience with it lately. You see, dear friends, I have been a mad, querying fool. I've stayed up into the night sending letters to agents who handle what I write, and the rejections have come pouring in. It's all good, as my brother would say. I can't be rejected if I'm not exposing myself. Okay, so it sucks a little bit, but each response brings me closer to forging a relationship with the agent and/or editor of my dreams. Too many people in my path, people with credentials, have told me my writing is solid for me to quit because of some turn-downs. People say no to me all the time, but for every 50 "no's" there is bound to be a "yes." And I'm going to keep pushing 'til I get it.

I know I'm not the only one facing Rejection Hill. Perhaps the great thing about it is there's no such thing as walking that long mile alone. What's interesting to me is that it works differently for people in other professional writing arenas. Take my dear friend Kay. She's a screenwriter, and a damn good one. That community seems smaller than that of novelists, and it is more closed from this outsider's perspective. She presses on, calling agents even when they slam the phone down, to see if they're accepting queries. I respect that, and she will be my inspiration, my companion up the hill that runs up both ways.

What do you do when people slam the door in your face, hang up on you or put you on ignore? We all have the option to pull the covers overhead and pretend it's all a bad dream. We can rant and rail against the people who are keeping us down. Or, we can be the champions we know ourselves to be, pick ourselves up, dust off and keep on truckin'.

It is impossible to discourage the real writers - they don't give a damn what you say, they're going to write. ~Sinclair Lewis