Life, liberty and the pursuit of a Merry Christmas

"I’m an American Soldier an American. Beside my brothers and my sisters, I will proudly take a stand. When liberty’s in jeopardy, I will always do what’s right. "

~from An American Soldier, by Toby Keith

I don't often listen to country music on the way to work. As a matter of fact, I don't often listen to music. Period. My dear husband rides in with me each day and he controls the radio in the car just as he controls the remote at home. So I listen to Sports Talk Radio. (zzzzzzzzzzzz...) Which isn't a bad thing, really. It gives me time to think about plot twists and rewrites and so forth.

Bill isn't riding with me, this week. He's on vacation. He's at home, with his remote. And I get to play with the tuner, for once. Oh, the power! I'm absolutely dizzy with the freedom. From Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer to Dominic the Donkey (ee-aw, ee-aw) to I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus...geez. Okay, so it's not that much better than Sports Talk. Eeaw-eeaw! When I landed on a song that didn't involve a four-leggie beast of burden or a lisping kid, I stayed there. Thus, the Toby Keith song.

I found that particular line interesting. "When liberty's in jeopardy, I alway do what's right."

Dictionary.com defines liberty as: freedom from control, interference, obligation, restriction, hampering conditions, etc.; power or right of doing, thinking, speaking, etc., according to choice.

It made me start thinking about the freedoms America is supposed to offer us. Freedom of religion. Freedom of speech.

Are we really free to speak? Are we really free to practice the religion of our choice?

Things are changing in this country. I'll give you an example. I recently went to my company Christmas party. We all knew it was a Christmas party. BUT...we weren't supposed to call it that.

We weren't even allowed to call it a "Holiday Party".

It was officially known as "The Year-End Party."

Despite the candy canes gracing the tables at the party, and everyone's wearing of red and green; even though women wore Christmas-y jewelry and the disc jockey played Christmas songs, we were at The Year-End Party.

None of us were at liberty to say "Christmas". Because that might--oh, horror--remind someone that the majority of us at the party are (gasp!) Christians. And we have this holiday that celebrates the birth of who we believe to be our savior.

Now, this doesn't mean that I want to go around slamming other people for their beliefs. I just want the freedom--the liberty--to celebrate my holiday. Or not. (I can live without Rudolph and Dominic, thank you. Ee-aw.) I don't want to be forced to say, "happy year's end" or even, "Happy Holidays". I want the freedom--the liberty--to speak freely and say (with confidence):

Merry Christmas!

Which brings me back to that Toby Keith song, which tells us that American soldiers are fighting for our liberty. They're in a conflict on foreign sand. Who's fighting for our liberty (our freedoms of speech and worship) on our own soil?

Recently Overheard

1) I don't care what you give me for Christmas. It's imminereal to me.
How about a dictionary?

2) You should get that treated. One of these days, you're going to wake up dead.
And I thought mornings were bad enough as it is...

3) The doctor said I have ammonia.
Dear God! At least, you're clean. 4) Let's leave things the way they are. You don't ever want to wake a sleeping horse.
Of course not. He might wake up dead.

I wish I had an actually overheard fifth to round it off, but I don't. So I'll just use my all-time favorite mangled phrase:

5) The perscription the doctor gave me put me into intergalactic shock, so I stopped taking it.
Beam me up, Doc.

What have you overheard, recently?

In honor of Pope Benedict XVI's Upcoming Visit to America...

I heard that the Pope plans to visit to the United States in April, 2008.

Now, I am not a good Catholic. In fact, whenever I write a short story, invariably I touch on something Catholic—things I question, things I find absurdly superstitious, medieval, or even oppressive.

But I still cling to those roots. I can’t help myself. In times of desperation—as do many—I turn back to the faith of my childhood. On my knees with the beads and the Hail Marys.

Recently I even surrendered to the most Catholic of Catholicisms. I performed a novena. My Saint of Choice was St. Martha. I chose her because my concern was my home and since Martha was the consummate homemaker and hostess, I thought she'd be the one to help me. You'd probably remember Martha as the woman who welcomed Jesus into her home, then waited on him until he told her to be like her sister Mary and sit down with him.

(Which makes me think that Martha might have been a bit of a neat-freak. She was probably saying things like, "Jesus. Take your sandles off, I just swept the floor. Good. Now, sit here--no, not in that chair, this one. I just put a plastic slipcover on it...yes. Now, are you hungry? What do you mean, 'no', of course you're hungry. Let me get you something to eat...")

Martha's novena is prayed on nine consecutive Tuesdays and involves lighting a candle. You are supposed to pray it especially beginning 9 Tuesdays before 29 July, the Feast (aka special day) of St. Martha.

I started to wonder, somewhere about week two of my novena. Why don't Catholics (especially the good ones) seem to recognize this type of prayer to be a working of magic, comparable to something from a witch’s Book of Shadows? Mine even involves a form of candle magic!

The answer to that question, I found, was this (lifted in full from fisheaters.com—please God, don’t let them sue me): “Be aware that some uneducated persons think about Novenas in a superstitious manner. Any Novena instructions that include words such as, "say this prayer for 9 consecutive days and your wish will be granted to you," or that describe the Novena as "never fail" in some sense that would lead one to believe that we have God at our beck and call rather than our being His humble servants -- well, while the prayers themselves might (or might not) be OK, such instructions should be absolutely rejected.”

That answers the magic thing…more or less. Because, as Catholics, we’re not allowed to be superstitious, we’re not turning a novena into a magical incantation. And, we’re not expecting our Saint of choice (our intercessor) to jump through magical hoops to get God’s ear and make our wish come true. (At least, in theory. Though there is the common prayer to Saint Anthony, the Patron of Missing Car Keys and other stuff, too: Dear Saint Anthony, please come around, something is lost and can’t be found.*

(Poor Saint Anthony. He’s spending his eternity helping God’s Catholic kids find their misplaced crap—and as any mother can tell you [because we moms know where everybody’s dropped their stuff]—Anthony really is a saint. Would you want to spend eternity helping your kids find the stuff they didn’t care enough about to take care of in the first place? Yech.)

ANYHOW, novenas are not supposed to be performed like magickal incantations. Even when you follow the nine-day or three-day rule. Fisheaters.com put it this way: [The word novena] deriving from the Latin word "novem," meaning "nine," a novena is nine days' private or public devotion in the Catholic Church to obtain special graces. Though they are not part of our liturgy and remain a "popular devotion" (a very few are prayed paraliturgically), they've been prayed since the very beginning of the Church -- and before its official beginning: Mary and the Apostles prayed from His Ascension to the Pentecost, a period of nine days (Acts 1). Also, a nine-day period of supplication was a pagan Roman and Eastern practice, so novenas were easily accepted by the earliest converts in these lands. The Christian and Jewish meaning of the number "9" entered into Christian thinking on the matter, as "9" was associated with suffering, grief, and imperfection, making it a fitting number for when "man's imperfection turned in prayer to God" (Catholic Encyclopedia). St. Jerome wrote that "the number nine in Holy Writ is indicative of suffering and grief" (Ezechiel, vii, 24).Novenas, then, often, but not necessarily, have about them a sense of "urgency"; they are typically made for special intentions, one's own or another's ("I'll make a novena for you"). Novenas to certain Saints are often made according to that Saint's patronage; for ex., because of his New Testament letter encouraging Christians to persevere in the face of persecution, St. Jude is the patron of desperate situations and "hopeless" causes, so a person who finds himself or a loved one in a real tough bind might make a novena to St. Jude (by the way, it is traditional, after making a novena to St. Jude, to make a public expression of your gratitude. This is the reason for those mysterious thank you notes to St. Jude that you might see in your local newspaper's Classifieds section).

Or, those mysterious thank you notes found in a writer’s blog, for that matter. So be it. I still feel the need to say:

Thank you, St. Martha, for your intercession in my hour of need!

(Light a candle) O admirable Saint Martha, I have recourse to thee and I depend entirely on thy intercession in my trials. In thanksgiving, I promise to spread this devotion everywhere. I humbly beg thee to console me in all my difficulties. By the immense joy that filled thy soul when thou didst receive the Redeemer of the world at thy home in Bethany, be pleased to intercede for me and my family, in order that we may keep God in our hearts and therefore, deserve to obtain the remedy to our necessities, especially the present situation that overwhelms me. (Mention your intentions here)I implore thee, O Auxiliatrice in all needs; help us to overcome our difficulties, thou who so victoriously fought the devil. Amen. Recite three times one Our Father, one Hail Mary, one Glory Be, and the invocation "Saint Martha, pray for us."

Amen!

*Saint Anthony Prayer, v. 2: Tony, Tony, come around, something is lost and can't be found.

This is a less formal prayer, said by Catholics more intimately acquainted with the saint, and therefore allowed to refer to him as if he were a character in West Side Story**.

**If this were the case, would he go around singing, "MARIA! I just met a girl named Maria..."?

Oh, crap. I really am going to hell in a handbasket. Anyhow, Welcome to America, Benny!

PRODUCT REVIEW: Werther’s Original CaraMelts: soft creamy caramels that melt in your mouth! Result: blech.

I’ve made a shocking self-discovery: I’m NOT a pantser. This means I don’t write by the seat of my pants.

I’m not a plotter, either. Filling out charts or blank spaces on character interviews do absolutely nothing for me.

I’ve decided I’m a third category of writer, a combination of the two. A pantsotter. Or, perhaps, a plotanter? Whatever. I need to figure out who my characters are, what my book’s about and how it progresses. I don’t need to carve out every nuance of the plot, but I do need to know how it starts, how it ends and—especially—what conflicts are going to drive the plot from one point to the next.

One method I’ve discovered to help me plan but not plan can be found on Holly Lisle’s website. (www.hollylisle.com) Look for her links to plotting under pressure and using notecards. It’s a great method if you think you’re a plotanter (or a pantsotter), too.

So...what do you think? What kind of writer are you?

It's the end of the world (as we know it...)

First of all, I’d like to have a blog moment of prayer for the people in California whose homes are—at this moment—burning, and especially for those who have lost their lives in the fires. Pray for the firefighters and the rescue workers. And pray that we as a nation display more compassion, concern and care. We failed miserably with Katrina. Let’s get it right this time.



Okay…moment over. It’s time for today’s blog:


The World is Going to End!

Nostradamus predicted this. It’s in prediction 207, Century XII: the gold headed Eagle will rank no. 2, the green giants will rule in the paint, the black and gold bears will bring favor to the ice. When the flying Elvis goes undefeated and the red footwear of the city of baked beans flies the pennant during the time of the full moon; the end time is near.

Loosely translated (as one should do with all Nostradomus’ predictions) : New England sports are kicking some serious tail.

The Boston College Eagles are ranked #2 in the nation for the first time since 1942.

The Celtics have a team that’s nearly comparable to the Bird-Parrish-McHale years.

The Bruins are actually enjoyable to watch and undefeated for the first time in ten years.

The Patriots are undefeated and despite early accusations of cheating, they are showing that they don’t have to steal other teams’ signals to win big.

And the Red Sox…ah, the Red Sox. They’re heading to the World Series for the second time in four years . The last time that happened, there was a lunar eclipse, and a blue moon. This time—the moon is full.

Like our expectations, here in New England. Our teams, it seems, can do no wrong. Which is why—the world is about to end.

Does that mean I should stop plotting the book I plan to write during November during the NaNo writing challenge. How about YOU?
Can you write 55,000 words in a month? I suppose it beats waiting for the end--

This just in!

My friend and critique partner, Jennifer Shirk, Me, My Muse and I, received THE CALL today!!!

From not one, but TWO different publishers…for the same manuscript.

That just goes to show you how great her book is. Go, Jennifer! Congratulations!

Gee…does this mean the world really is going to end? LOL.

No! It means—Jennifer will be published, the Sox will win the Series, the Patriots will win the SuperBowl, the Bruins will win the Stanley Cup, the Celtics will win…a big basketball trophy and the Eagles…will also win a big trophy. Yeh!

I love good news.

Shoe musing

There are some women who are sleek. Tall, streamlined, with long, straight hair that shimmers. They smell nice. They look nice. They wear makeup and beautiful clothes that fit their slender frames perfectly. When they go to the ladies' room, they stop in front of the mirror to fluff and preen--and they should. They look good.

I, on the other hand, wash my hands and leave the room.

Waah.

If women were shoes, the sleek ones would be red high heeled spikes with a strap across the instep.

I'd be an orthopedic slip-on.

I could get depressed about this. (All right, I have gotten depressed about this.) Who wants to be an orthopedic shoe?

But then again...if you had a choice, what would you want to wear all day? A red spiked heel (that might pinch your toes, make your calves ache, give you corns and bunions and maybe Plantars Fascitis) or comfortable shoes that cushion your soles and give you plenty of support?

Yeah, one looks nice, but the other feels nice.

So I guess--all things considered--I'd rather be the orthopedic, feel good type. One that is supportive. Because eventually, all shoes get scuffed. Which ones do you feel worse about throwing away? The ones that pinched? Or the ones that made you feel good?

I think this is a premise that I explore in my books. My heroines are never spikes. They are more like all weather moccasins (which also have great support, by the way) who yearn to be spiky but just don't have what it takes. They are too comfortable, too kind, too...just too. Normal. Easy to be around. Not pretty, exactly, but more functional. And better, in the long run, for my hero. (Oh! That's a pun, of sorts. Not intentional, but...heh. Oddly enough, I'm trying to stop myself from comparing my heros with feet. Or...heels. Ar, ar, ar...)

Sometimes my heroines are those shoes you see by the side of the road. The fallen. Alone. Sort of squashed. But ready to rally, to find the other half of the pair and carry on.

Sometimes, they're running shoes. Athletic. Useful. And friendly. (Perhaps even inflatable. Or with little springs under them.)

Yes, you're right. This is a silly post. But it could be worse. I could be comparing women to horses.

Nay.

Teddy Explodes in Freak Laundry Accident

A teddybear exploded today in a freak laundry accident at a Cranston, Rhode Island home.

Miss Dearheart Valentine, covered in chocolate (due to previous accident in the same home) entered a pillowcase in order to take a bath with some towels.

"The bleach hurt my eyes," was all she would say, still obviously in shock after the accident.

"Fluff was everywhere!" Retched a horrified eye-witness, still covered in bear stuffing shortly after the accident. That same eyewitness was hurried away to a psychiatric ward shortly after, probably suffering from post-traumatic shock.

"#!$%!!!" said Cynthia Brayden-Thomas, operator of the washing machine in which the accident occurred. "I hate laundry. Now what?"

Despite repeated attempts to clear the stuffing from the area, much of it still remains stuck to sheets, towels and inexplicably, wedged inside a pair of girls' tights. Brayden-Thomas hopes that experts will not have to be called to remove the bulk of the fluff from inside the machines or the tights. When asked if the stuffing would affect future loads, all Brayden-Thomas would offer was, "@$#%!"

Miss DearHeart Valentine is expected to enjoy a full recovery provided she stay away from washing machines in the future.

Writer's Block

Yes, you got it. I have it. Writer's block.

To be honest, I'm not surprised. My little vacation from writing has put me into quite a funk. I don't know how to write, anymore.

And...here's a secret...you know how I call my blog Real Writer's Don't Vaccuum? Well...this writer actually does. Yes! I not only vaccuum. I dust. And, I do laundry. I like to keep my house tidy and clutter-free, actually, and if it's not that way--well, damn it, I make it that way. The problem with that is: When you have two elementary aged kids, a husband who likes to hold the remote but not much else and two dogs who don't like to hold onto their fur, then you've got messes. Add a nine-month-old who's walking (gasp! yes!) and climbing stairs and...well...

My house looks like Iraq. Only more dusty. There are no humvees, or street vendors (yet), but the effect is the same. Who exploded the bomb in here?

Overall, the mess and the dust and the clutter (and the fruit flies--did I mention them? The guinea pig invites them to share his fresh veggies every spring and summer and part of the fall. I can't get rid of them) make it really hard for this Felix Unger of a mother to write. (The fruit flies, especially. They like to walk on the monitor. ACK!! WAAUGH! ERG!)

So, I'm cleaning today. I'm even vaccuuming, followed by my little nine-month-old shadow, who helps by picking up the pieces of dust and dog hair I've missed, and popping them into his mouth for safe keeping. I hope that--if I ever get things fixed up--I can sit down and write something. Anything...

I'll start with this blog. :)

What kind of things do you do to unblock your writer's block?

Quitting the day job

After nearly ten long years, I've crawled out of my basement office and entered the light of day.

I've also entered the work force.

This is a good thing, I think. For example, I'm able to blog for the first time in...I dunno. A while. Also, I've picked up a manuscript I haven't touched in years--and decided to rework it. I now have an hour (and two fifteen minute breaks) free and all to myself, five days a week. Amazing! No children tugging at me, asking for this, that or the other thing. (Adults tugging at me, perhaps, but they are easily turned away with the phrase, "I'm at lunch!") And, if worse comes to worse, there's always the cafeteria to sit in with my pile of paper. Or even, the car.

I'm very excited. Yes, I miss my children (especially the baby, who is still nursing whenever I'm home). But it's great to be a money-earning, productive adult again.

On to my manuscript!

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

Before he lost his hearing, my dad would read jokes to the us from the Reader's Digest. Red-faced, he'd snort and giggle his way through a joke, stopping to lift his glasses and wipe away the tears streaming from his eyes. It was one of his favorite things and though we teased him about it, we all tend to do the same to our families.

And me? I'm going a step further. I'm going to blog a joke from RD. I'm not giggling or snorting, I have no glasses to lift. And the reason I'm blogging about these particular jokes is not because they're so funny (though they are) but because I just want to point out what a great form of characterization these would make, especially for a secondary character who's main function in your story would be comic relief. So here they are. Can you think of any of your own?

"Yogi-isms"
from The Reader's Digest, September 2007

Our top 10 list.
1. If you can't be on time, be early.-- Timothy Snipes
2. I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous.-- Vance Garnett
3. Things are cheaper when you make more money.-- Joanna Adams
4. Answer the phone -- it might be somebody.-- Michelle Blythe
5. I can't hear without my glasses.-- Jay Wollenburg
6. It will feel better when it quits hurting.-- Lynn Anderson
7. With him, the deeper you go the shallower he is.-- Bob Mason
8. It would be easier to accept you as you are if you were different.-- Vance Garnett
9. The eggs were so big, there were only nine of them to the dozen.-- tinkerbryant
10. The next new car I buy will be a used one.-- Grillthom

A Survey

Just a little brainstorming type question, for all two or three of you who actually read my blog.

You have a female vampire.

She's from this century. This millenium. In fact, she's only been a vampire for a year or so.

What do you think she could be addicted to?

Ah, writing. It's a strange thing. You suddenly have a character in your head, dictating a story to you, demanding you tell it. The character tells you: I have an addiction.

But she won't tell you what it is.

I hate that. Who do these characters think they are, anyway? They take over your brain but they don't cooperate. It's the worst sort of possession.

Almost as bad as noisy teenagers in the computer room at your local library...

Maybe she's got an addiction to teenage boys!

Um...no....I don't think so....

Ah well. Summer vacation is almost over and the kids--mine and the ones here at the library--will be going back to school soon. And thus, I hope, my writer's block will end.

But will I find out what my character is addicted to?

What do you think it might be?

If you're looking for a really good read...

...Check out Annette Blair's latest book!

SEX AND THE PSYCHIC WITCH

She could touch the past…

As the buyer for her sister’s vintage curio shop, Harmony finds her job almost unbearable, since she has the ability to read objects and learn things about their former owners—even their deepest darkest secrets. Now, a Celtic ring depicting a man’s empty embrace has led her to the Paxton castle on the coast of Salem , Massachusetts .

He needed her presence…

King Paxton has inherited a haunted money-pit of a castle. He must get rid of it before he’s cursed with the same bad luck that has plagued generations of his family. But out of nowhere, a leggy blonde plows in and quiets the disgruntled construction crew and the ghost who haunts the castle.

There, Harmony finds an angry ghost, a disgruntled renovation crew, and a man who could use a harmonic convergence…

Better, buy her other books and then buy this one when it's available at your local bookstore. (See: http://www.annetteblair.com/)

I love Annette. She is my Hope. I knew Annette when she was a slogging along, unpublished drudge like the rest of us. And then...she went to a conference and Kate Duffy requested all five (5!) of her books. (It could happen to me! Or, you!)

I still remember the look on her face when she came out of her editor meeting. Shocked. Scared. And so high with delight, it was infectious. You knew she was going to get The Call.

I also remember my feeling of "Huh?" when Annette told me she'd had an idea for a romantic comedy. You see, she's written the most wonderful historicals, and I couldn't wrap my brain around Ms. Blair with a comedic voice. Silly me. She's got the most wonderful and fun series going. They're lyric and funny, enjoyable and well-crafted. I love them.

The best part is: Annette shares her knowledge of the craft (the writing craft) without hesitation. She is so supportive of unpublished plebes (like me) that I must (must) support her in return by telling you (more unpublished plebes) to BUY HER BOOKS! TELL YOUR FRIENDS! Let's put her on the USA Today's bestseller's list and help her fly to the top (with or without a broom). Because it happened for Annette and it could happen for us, too. Pass the word and the kharma!

Har-ry! Har-ry! Har-ry!

I spent my weekend reading Harry Potter.

Actually, I spent my weekend preparing to get Harry Potter, then buying Harry Potter, then reading Harry Potter--and then, thinking about Harry Potter.

How many more times can I write Harry Potter?

Anyhow, I took my daughter (age 9) to a release party on Friday. We got there at 11:00 pm, and watched dedicated fans parade about in their costumes (my personal favorite: a 9 month-old dementor in her mommy's black hoodie), played Harry Potter (there it is, again) trivia, played Snape bingo--and then waited to purchase our copy of the book. My daughter's eyes were red slits by the time we left the store, but she thoroughly enjoyed the experience. There will never be anything else like it. What a phenomenon the Harry Potter books are.

I started reading the book at 1:00 am and managed to get in the first chapter before common sense told me to go to bed. I spent most of Saturday reading (swallowing) this last book, and I closed the cover at 10:10 Sunday morning. Deathly Hallows--quite a satisfactory ending to a wonderful, amazing series!

I did not answer any of my daughter's questions about it--no spoiler, here. But I realized something as we talked about the previous books; something that any writers of YA should be think about (and probably do. I'm just new to the game.) Kids don't see things the same way we do.

You see, Jenna mentioned that her friend Caitlin's favorite Harry Potter book so far was Order of the Pheonix. I was surprised. In my opinion, Harry was a whiny adolescent through the whole thing. NEWSFLASH: Whiney pre-adolescents think Harry's not whining in this book. (gasp!) Instead, they see Harry bunking authority and kids saving the day by practicing defense against the Dark Arts on their own. (!)

Um...yeah. Okay. Gotcha. New mantra: Kids really are different than adults. I thought I knew this, but didn't realize how much I didn't know it.

Know what I mean?

So, maybe my Internal Idiot is right. Why she didn't tell me this important fact, I'm not sure. I need to think more like a kid.

I wonder if it would help if I whined more?

Add a letter, minus three and...

Have you ever noticed how the same letters (+i, -r, -e, -d) of editor can be rearranged to spell...idiot?


That's one of those things that always pops out at me when I'm trying to write. You see, I've got this editor in my head. And the editor says, "This sucks. Are you kidding? You can't write. You can't plot. This is boring. There are too many words. There aren't enough. This whole thing doesn't make sense. It will never sell. No one will like it. I hate it. Stop. Stop writing, now. Go do something else. Go, be a housewife and wash your dishes."


Idiot.


I hate the editor in my head. She kills everything. AND, she makes me feel guilty for writing. I try not to listen to her, but...she makes it very hard. She sounds so credible.


So I keep using the formula. Add an i. Minus e, d, r. You get--idiot. That's what that internal editor is. An idiot. And that's what I'd be--what we'd all be--if we listened to her. (Because she lives in all our heads. Sometimes, she goes on vacation and lets us write in peace--probably haunting someone else's head. Oooh, I hate her.)


Anyhow, I'm working on my YA--or what I think might be a YA. I've only got six double-spaced pages completed. That editor is reading over my shoulder and she's got me doubting my story. I'm going to try and write past her...wish me luck.


Do you have any advice for quelling the editor (the idiot)? Please, share!

Paranormal solved!

Hello. My name is Duffy. I am the Dog of the House. There is another dog of the house. She is a bitch. Her name is Rosie.

Mommy isn't here, today. She is using the hose in the giant water dish in the backyard. She is muttering something about overfilling the dish and shorting out the filter. She is not cheerful.

I am cheerful. That is why I decided to help Mommy by writing her blog. I am a literate dog.

I am also very cute. Did you see my picture? I also included a picture of the bitch who is Rosie. She is not as cute as me. She is not literate, either. She is silly.

She is also responsible for paranormal happenings. Last night, we watched the show Ghost Hunters on the electric window. It is Mommy's favorite show. She knows where their office is, near our house. One day she saw the Brian-man getting the bitter brew that Mommy calls "coffee" at the shop she walks to everyday with the human puppy.

Anyway, back to Rosie. I realized this morning that Rosie is the reason paranormal--that is, things that are NOT normal--things happen. Like, things disappearing. Mommy left the room and--poof!--her coffee disappeared right out of her cup. When she came back, it was gone. That was because of the bitch, Rosie. She drank it.

Rosie also makes things like socks, shoes, underwear and toys disappear. You might think these things are being taken by a ghost. But no. They are being taken by a bitch. Paranormal solved! So we don't need Ghost Hunters. We need--me. Duffy. I am a very smart dog.

Now, if you'll please excuse me. I need to go find a place to spread my scent. Mommy's outside. I might as well use the corner of the couch...

The Dark Side of the Contest

A friend of mine was excited recently. She got her very first contest scores back. She'd done pretty well. But she was puzzled.

There were two judges who loved her writing. They praised her characterization, her voice, her use of pov--just about everything. They made long comments and critiques. They even let her know about their own background as published or unpublished authors.

And then...there was The Third Judge.

The Third Judge (known as 163) didn't like anything. She gave minimal scores on everything, but--cryptically--made no notes or critiques indicating why. She left no information as to her published status. 163 was a Black Hole of Judging, sucking the life out of the entry without giving anything back.

Have you experienced The Third Judge?

I have. I've entered a myriad of contests. I've finalled in most of them (tooting my own horn here--take that, you evil judge). Yet, there has always--always--been that Third Judge. The Evil one. The Dark One.

Darth Judge.

Her sole purpose is to drag you down into the dark side of the contest. She wants to destroy all the goodness and light you feel about your writing. She wants you to succumb.

She gives you nothing but despair. And, a lower percentile. The most she'll offer is a 5 out of a possible 10. BUT, she won't tell you why. This is part of her plan. She makes you wonder, makes you question yourself, and your own abilities.

I'm almost positive that this judge is the same one for all contests. She is neither published nor unpublished. She is just...a judge. She sits at a desk, (probably a shiny black one), and daily destroys the dreams of the hopeful writer with the swipe of her pen. She does nothing else. And it brings her pleasure.

The only thing I could offer my friend was this--when you enter a contest, be prepared for Darth Judge. Accept her scores but don't wonder why she gave them. It is what she does. She tells you not why she doesn't like your writing. The reason, I'm sure, is because SHE CANNOT WRITE. All she can do is be The Judge (and think she can write).

And that's the weapon we writers have against Darth Judge and her dark scores. We have the ability to create worlds with our words. Yes, she can try to destroy them but--we are stronger. We are creative. We are vibrant.

Besides, we outnumber her and could pummel her little vicious ass if we bothered to find out where she lives. Probably some trailer park.

Pay attention, 163. We're on to you!

Although...sometimes real writers vacuum the pool.

What is it about water? The calm blue of a pool, even when dotted with bugs in their death throes, can be inspirational.

I have a writer-friend who does all her rewriting in her tub. She's got one of those big, walk-in spas. On the edge, where some folks keep spare bottles of shampoo and razors, she has a mug full of pens. She swears by this method. Writing while in water boosts her creativity. And she has a group of brainstorming buddies who swear to the same theory. Since's she's multipublished, I figure, she knows what she's talking about.

I have yet to try writing while in the tub. Or the pool. Maybe I'll try after I finish scooping out the bugs.

Gisted.

My nine-year-old is writing a book. It's a paranormal. (Hmm. How does the child know what the hot market is right now?) She's told me the gist of the story--that's what they're working on in her fourth grade classroom. Instead of a summary, they create gists. "Here's the gist of it," they say.

Doesn't that sound less scary than "a two minute pitch outlining the GMC of the protagonist" or whatever we tell ourselves as we ready ourselves to meet an editor at a conference? Next year, I'm thinking gist instead of pitch.

Anyway, that's not the gist of this blog entry. Not really. What is the gist is--I'm afraid my nine-year-old is going to get published before I do.

For one thing, she maps out her stories ahead of time. It's not unusual to find one of her story outlines on my desk, usually a simple but effective list. Something like: Chapter One--Lindsay Finds a Horse. Chapter Two--Lindsay's parents don't want her to keep the horse. Chapter Three--Lindsay wins the National Horse Show...and so on. The point is, she knows her conflicts for each chapter (or as she says, "the problems") and manages to find ways to solve them. She knows where she's been and where she's going in her stories.

Damn.

For another--she's enthusiastic about her stories. She can talk about them and not lose steam. In fact, the more she talks (and talks and talks and talks) about her ideas, the more excited she gets about them. And then, she actually sits down--and writes.

Damn.

Here's chapter one of her current book. I could say it's got too much backstory, and she could make better use of her pronouns, but--waah. She's nine. She really is going to be published before I am. Lord knows, she'll be able to gist it to an editor with no problem. :)

Chapter One

Saying goodbye to the small house, Tamara got into the car. She and her family were moving from Ohio to Providence, Rhode Island in a larger house. Tamara wasn’t sure about the idea of moving to Rhode Island, she didn’t really know where it was, she knew that it was one of the first states found in America, but only that. She did a little research on the little place two weeks before she moved and found that it was the smallest state otherwise known as "Little Rhody".

As the car screeched to a stop, Tamara almost jumped out of her seat. Although she wasn’t too happy about it, she still wanted to see the house. She hoped that it was a good house to live in, not ugly and uncomfortable. The moving van shortly followed and the movers shuffled out of the truck and began to unload it.

"Isn’t it just lovely, Tam?" Tamara’s mom, Samantha rested a loving hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Tamara turned around and looked up at Samantha.

"It’s better than I expected it to be, it looks like it’ll be a really nice place to live," Tamara smiled, although she didn’t have the time to study the house. She stood motionlessly and stared in awe at the big house. It was tall and very pretty. It was on the quieter side of Providence, not as busy as the bustling, chaotic parts. The house was white with green shutters. Vines stretched all the way from the ground to the roof on the right side of the house. Stairs led up to the front door. But they were an oval-like shape, they were extremely pretty. A plaque stood in the front of the house.

"Dad, what’s that plaque right there say?" Tamara tapped her dad’s shoulder, getting his attention. He was standing and staring at the house in awe as well as Tamara did. His name was Roger, he worked as a loan officer and got paid well. He was one of the reasons they moved to Providence, the could now afford such a nice house.

"Go on and read it," he made a gesture with his hands.

Tamara rushed to the plaque. It read:
Built in 1825
The Birming Mansion
Right Side of Building Rebuilt in 1833

Tamara read it over and over again. On the front steps was a box with a paper tucked under it, the end of the paper flapping against the breeze. Tamara snatched up the note from under the box and read it carefully. It was a little hard to read because of the cursive handwriting but she managed to make out what it said.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow,
I have put together this little scrap book for you about the house’s history. Take a good look at it and save it if you want to know a little about it. Read the plaque in the front, it tells you a little bit . I’m sure you will like what I’ve put together for you and you will find it interesting.
I am a historian and I know a lot about this house. I am sure you will enjoy living in it. Although, I don’t know you well, I’m sure you will anyway.
Historian Kenny McGrath

Tamara opened the box and pulled out the book. She jumped out of the way quickly as the movers trudged in with heavy furniture. She opened it. The first thing she saw was a portrait of the Birming family. There was a paragraph under it that read:

The famous Birming family portrait. They lived in the house in the early 1800s. They moved there on July 2, 1826. The family was made up of four children and two adults. The youngest was Mary, the next youngest was George, the next oldest was Benjamin and the oldest of them was Sarah. The man that lived with them was Charles and the woman was Laura.

Tamara flipped the next page to find a portrait of Charles. Under his picture, it said 1795-1865. Tamara looked to the next page and found Laura’s portrait. Under it the picture, it said 1800-1891. Tamara flipped the page to find Sarah, 1822-1832. "Only ten years! What happened to her?!" Tamara said aloud. Tamara’s parents had already gone inside, but Tamara didn’t notice, she was too absorbed in the book to even look inside the wide open door. On the next page was Benjamin, 1824-1905. Then was George 1825-1907. Then was Mary, 1828-1914. Tamara flipped to the next page. There was a picture of the house with the right side burnt badly. The paragraph under it said:

A fire occurred on October 6, 1832. The house was repaired 1833 and updated in 2000. All of the Birming family got out safely except for Sarah who went back into the building, searching for young Mary. Mary managed to get out herself, but Sarah didn’t come out with her. The ten- year- old girl did not survive the fire. The family moved again to another home after the fire with a terrible feeling for young Sarah.

Just thinking that thought made Tamara’s mouth dry.

"Tamara! Come see the new house! It’s just beautiful! Tamara’s called.

Tamara rushed inside. It was bright and beautiful. The floor was a cherry hardwood, hard and smooth and shiny as glass. Tamara just had to touch it. The dining room had many windows and the same wonderful floors and a chandler hanging above the table. In the living room, there was a deep red colored carpet. Tamara noticed that on the wall a portrait of the Birming hung on the wall. Tamara’s eyes widened. She saw a small name in the corner.
"It’s a beautiful painting, it’s the original copy of the Birming family that lived here long ago," Tamara’s dad explained. The name in the corner was Sarah Birming, October 5, 1832.

Tamara couldn’t believe it! Sarah Birming actually made that famous portrait! She must have been an amazing artist!

Tamara and her parents hurried up the stairs. "This will be your new bedroom," Tamara’s mom opened a wooden door that led into a beautiful bed room. A teal blue wallpaper covered the walls and the same cherry hardwood floor was there. Tamara’s puppy, Rusty bounded up the stairs and into Tamara’s new bedroom. He yipped excitedly at her and wagged his tail. Tamara’s parents went back down the stairs and Rusty followed them as he heard his dog food in his bowl being placed on the ground. Tamara left as well. She closed the door behind her. As she stepped on the first step going down the stairs she heard something banging on her bedroom door. "HELP ME! ANYBODY! I’M IN THE BEDROOM! HELP ME! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASE!" Tamara turned and looked at the door. A voice came from the room, sounding like it was coming from a girl about Tamara’s age. She heard a high pitched scream like someone was in pain. She opened the door to find nothing. Who-- or what-- was making that noise!

We-l-l-l-l-l...okay. I guess so.

Funny thing about taking time off from writing. It doesn't quite work.

When you have a "real" job (or--gasp!--hobby), you take time off, recharge and come back raring to go. When you write, however, you sort of fade away.

I'm still doing research for my Leonardo book. Sort of. I took a side trip into a bit of research about Henry VIII and his children, which will have NOTHING to do with my book, but...well... the book was there in the library where I got some books about the Renaissance, and I read one, then another, and another--and now I'm on a whole new track about something that does not relate to my intended project at all.

Julia Cameron, writer of The Artist's Way (among other things), calls this "filling the well". She says, (on page 21 of AW): "Filling the well involves the active pursuit of images to refresh our artistic reservoirs...In filling the well, think magic. Think delight. Think fun. Do not think duty. Do not do what you should do--spiritual sit-ups like reading a dull but recommended critical text. Do what intrigues you, explore what interests you; think mystery, not mastery."

So. There you have it. I'm having fun, exploring. But...I'm fading out of writing, too. This appears to be a dangerous thing. I could drown in my own well.

Hopefully, I'll find a life jacket along the way and tow myself back to my manuscript.

Secrets, Part 2

I had time to reflect on yesterday's blog, and I realized I left out some important things.

First, here's my secret: I keep a stash of chocolate way in the back of a cupboard in my kitchen. Behind the vitamins and boxes of herbal tea, tin cookie trays and the ceramic pumpkin we put the Halloween candy in. It's such a secret, I've even forgotten about it at times. Which isn't a bad thing. Because when I remember it, I tend to eat the whole bag. I keep it there for those times when I'm all alone and depressed, needing a little pick me up (and weigh me down). If my family knew it existed (and again, I'm relying on the fact that no one in my family reads my blog--heheheh, the fools!), they'd scarf it all down faster than I can say, "Hey! That's MY chocolate!"

Hence, that's why it's a secret.

As secrets go, it's a fairly small one. I don't think that keeping this little bit of information from my children and spouse is all that deceptive. (Unlike the woman from yesterday's blog, who hid an entire equine from her husband.) I can't even say it's all that selfish, because if it were discovered, I would share the bag. (I'd also find a new hiding place for the next bag.) In fact, since neither my spouse nor my children should be ingesting sugar and caffeine, you might even say I'm saving their lives.

Second: I suggest writers use secrets wisely. And carefully. And, most importantly, sparingly. (Sort of like I should be using adverbs. But that's another blog.) I've critiqued manuscripts, contest entries and synopsis' where the writer has used a secret as their characters' conflict or motivation.

Unless they're writing a spy novel, this "I've got a secret" thing doesn't work. (It's even worse when the writer won't even tell the secret in the synopsis. Eeek!) Because--and I know I'm not the only person who feels this way--it makes the hero or heroine just look sneaky. By the time they admit their gigantic secret to their hero/heroine, the reader has lost all respect for the story, the characters and even, the writer. Unless--wait, let me emphasize that--UNLESS they've got a really good reason for it.

Pretending to be your twin sister so that you can sleep with the hero--not a good reason.

Pretending to be of noble birth to save a man's life--good reason. *

Pretending to be someone of a specific career path (I dunno, pick one...brain surgeon will work) so that you can impress strangers and most importantly, the hero--not a good reason.

Pretending to be a waitress so that you can take a break from being a brain surgeon and not impress anybody...we-e-e-ell, that depends. Could be a good reason, IF you make the protagonist angst about the lie and even try to tell the truth; until she needs to perform emergency surgery at the bed and breakfast where she's hiding out and she saves someone's life.

In my story, Overnight Groom, my hero (JP) and heroine (Emma) are keeping a secret: They're not really married and they never eloped. The reason? Emma's Great Aunt Maisie got so excited when she heard the mistaken report that they eloped, she had a heart attack. And Emma, who used to be a nurse, knows that sometimes good news helps people heal. So she convinces JP to continue to pretend to be her husband for as long as it takes for Maisie to get well.

If only JP's brother, Father Tim, didn't keep hounding him to tell the truth... (conflict)

If only Maisie didn't keep chirping about how happy she is about Emma and JP's unexpected marriage from behind her oxygen mask...(motivation. you see, the old lady could still go at any time.)

If only there wasn't a gossip reporter hounding their every move, threatening to get to the bottom of their relationship... (What? Doesn't everyone have a gossip reporter following them?)

Anyhow, you can see that even if a secret is driving the plot, there needs to be a strong motivation to maintain that secret. Like--keeping someone alive. And, the protagonist/s will angst over the fact that s/he is, in fact, lying. Or else they'll just be sneaky and deceptive people--like the woman hiding a horse from her husband--and how heroic is that?

*See the movie, Ever After: (http://www.foxmovies.com/everafter/) There's no violence, no cursing and no embarrassing sex scenes to hide from the kids, so you can even watch it with them in the same room. Unless, of course, you're eating the chocolate you're hiding from them.

Secrets

I've got a secret.

And so do you.

We all do. Everyone. Even my dogs have secrets. (They just don't hide them very well. Look under the couch. And you can tell if it's a really secret secret, because one of them appears sheepish and slinks about apologetically.)

I heard about a really good secret the other day. One of those friend of a friend of a friend secrets--it may even be an urban legend. Anyhow, I mentioned something to a friend of mine about charging a $65 vet's fee and "Heheheheh--don't tell my husband." She told me about a vet friend of hers who met a client in a restaurant. The client rushed up, pointed to a man at the bar (who was watching a game on the television and not paying any attention to his wife) and said, "Hi Dr. Soandso--that's my husband! He doesn't know I have a horse, so--don't say anything!"

Wow. Now that's a big secret. How can you hide a horse? I have enough trouble hiding my horse's bills from my husband--I can't imagine hiding the whole horse. But this woman--the client--had been with the vet for years with her horse.

She must have been the Queen of Espionage.

Where did she hide her stinky barn boots? How did she excuse her long, daily absences, times when she went to muck and ride? What did she do with all her ribbons and trophies (assuming she showed with her horse)? Good grief--this woman had a whole other life. And her husband knew nothing. (She'd probably be really good at having an affair. Hmm. Imagine if he thought she was having an affair and hired a P.I.? All he'd get is photos of her forking up pooh, hauling waterbuckets, pushing a wheelbarrow... Can you imagine how embarrassed he and the PI might be? Shuffling their feet and saying, "Well, I guess this isn't as bad as another man..." and "I thought she smelled funky but I thought it was her shampoo..." and so on.

So the point is--what secrets do your characters have? Do they have stinky barn boots to hide? Where do they hide them? And--most importantly--WHY?

A tempting proposal

I've been doing research on Leonardo da Vinci. (Don't ask.*) Leonardo was brilliant in so many capacities--everyone agrees on that. (Except Michaelangelo, and that was mostly sour grapes. I think. I know there was a dueling murals contest going on at one point, but I haven't researched that much, yet. I just liked the idea of it. Two Renaissance men furiously trying to outpaint the other, both of them amazing; I can picture them trash talking at each other. My mural's better than your mural...Your apprentice is a weenie....Good beard, LeoNERDo, etc. )

Leonard's mural, The Battle of Anghiari, was never finished, reputedly because of technical difficulties. (See a larger version of the mural--but not a life-sized reproduction of it, unless you have a really big monitor--at : http://www.kfki.hu/~/arthp/html/l/leonardo/06anghia/index.html )

No one was surprised Leonardo didn't finish the mural, (especially not Michaelangelo), because everyone agreed: Leonardo never finished anything. He was so full of ideas, he'd start a project, then start another, and another...and never get back to the first project.

Okay. Show of hands. Who is like Leonardo?

One of the hardest things for me, as a writer, is finishing what I started. I begin, with confidence and even a little awe (this idea is so cool!) and then...begin to get a little bored. What was fun becomes work. I hit a snag, I falter, I stop.

And those pesky ideas keep coming. So much more interesting. So...snag-free. (Or, free of technical difficulties. Leonardo could relate.)

I used to feel bad about this. I think many of us do. We worry about middle muddles and BIAW's and so on, writing through the bad, yelling at ourselves to Finish the DAMN BOOK! (Oh. You can put your hands down, now. Sorry.)

Anyhow, I've decided to give myself permission--since I'm not published, not on deadline, not writing for any reason other than the fact that I cannot not write--to not finish. At least, for a few months. It's nearly summer, the kids will be out of school soon. The baby is going to start getting those teeth. I think I'll do my research on Leonardo (in different colors of ink!) and just enjoy the process of not finishing. I invite you to do the same. At least for a few months. (I can hear some of you hissing your breath through your teeth and chanting, "Get thee behind me, you devil" as you hold up index-finger crosses to your monitors. Hey, I'm sorry. I may be tempting you, but at least this particular temptation is calorie-free.)

What would you do with time spent not finishing your book? Spend some time with your kids? Your spouse? Other family members? Your friends? Your pets?

Go to the beach. Go for a walk. Go. Just--go. Enjoy. Soak up the world. Feel alive--really alive--not tied to the characters in your head, but to the people in your world.

Study. Study people. Study your favorite authors--figure out how they do what they do that makes them your favorite. Study The Bible. Study yourself. Study...Leonardo da Vinci. And most of all, enjoy it.

*Incidentally, the reason I say "don't ask" why I'm researching da Vinci--because pretty soon I'll be starting to write another book, something completely different from my usual style, and I'd rather not discuss it until I've finished it.

Conflict=problem

I like the way they're teaching conflict in school these days. When I was a kid, conflict was defined as man vs. man, man vs. himself, man vs society, etc.

That works, but it's not very easy to wrap your head around. Especially when your life is mostly kid vs. kid, kid vs. self, kid vs. society, etc. That generic "man" thing doesn't do it when you're reading something like Anne of Green Gables. That definition was too cloudy. For example, Anne serves Diana blackberry wine instead of raspberry cordial. If you're in fourth grade...where's the conflict? Diana's mother gets mad at Anne and she can't be friends with Diana anymore. Is that man vs. man? Or man vs. society? It was cloudy and vague definition that didn't quite fit the books you read. Unless it was Lord of the Flies --then it hit you on the head and oinked like a wild pig. But how often did you read that kind of book?

Anyhow...

My kids have learned a better definition. A conflict is a "problem". Even my first grader knows that every story has a problem, and the story ends when the problem is solved.

Here's a story he wrote for last night's Reading Camp Out at school:

Once I went camping. I took my friends Nick and Robert. We took my new car. Nick and Robert liked it. Finally we got to the campground. At night, we told scary stories! Hahahaha! We all got scared when we were asleep. A black bear stole all our food! We were starving in the morning. We went to a restaurant for breakfast. The End.

Reminds me of a Hemingway story. There's even a Nick: "Nick liked the car. It was shiny and fast. This is a fast car, thought Nick. It is sleek and it goes fast in the night like a car that is fast..."

You can clearly see the evolution of the plot. Beginning, rising action ("hahahaha"), crisis, resolution. No muddled middle--straight to the conflict: no food because of a bear. How do the characters solve the problem? They go to a restaurant.

Why didn't they teach it that way when I was in elementary school? Instead of planning for the GMC in my stories, I'm now going to start planning for the GMP.

Maybe my son will help.

Too too but not too much

Another way to say it is internal conflict.

A friend of mine was angry with me today. Not undeservedly, I don't think. In fact, I'm glad she expressed her feelings. I'd worried all along that in the course of our relationship she would begin to feel I was taking advantage of her, and she'd always told me she'd let me know if she felt that way.

I'm sorry I wasn't sensitive enough to remedy the situation before she felt the need to tell me about it. But I have a reputation as being dense. Ask my husband, who often tells me: You're insensitive. (He tells me I'm oversensitive, too. Which makes me wonder if that means I cancel myself out?)

I also have a reputation of being stubborn. "You're stubborn! You never listen to anything anyone ever tells you!", my mother in law tells me.

My sisters tell me: "You're over-emotional!"

I've also been told: you're not assertive enough, you're wishy-washy, you don't pay attention, you don't think about yourself enough, you think about yourself too much--in short: You're too too and You're not enough.

It's a tough load to carry; mostly because I'm not sure which way I'm supposed to go. I can't please everyone (but I've been told I'm not supposed to) yet I've been told: you're selfish. So that means...I shouldn't try to please everyone yet...I'm not supposed to please myself, either?

No, wait. I'm supposed to please myself and then everyone else will be pleased. Except those who won't be pleased because I've pleased myself.

Perhaps the problem is that, as I've been told: "You're too one way or the other. There's no middle ground for you." I've also been told that I should be single-minded of opinions and feelings.

In reality, I'd like to tell everyone to take a long hike, and keep their opinions of how I should be/act/express myself/be a human being to themselves. But then, you see, I'd be too emotional/confrontational/bitchy. So I keep quiet and let people tell me I'm too unassertive/submissive/weak.

Besides, if I say anything, my mother will only tell me I'm making excuses.

No wonder I'm depressed.

Anyhow, I'm sorry I upset my friend, and I'm sorry I make her feel unappreciated and taken advantage of. I wish I could do things the way she suggests, but to do that means I have to not run my life the way other people want or suggest and then they'll be mad at me, too. I'm not perfect (though the people in my life seem to think I have the potential to be) and even if I was perfect, people wouldn't be happy with me. Because then I'd be too too and that's too much. (Yet still, never enough.)

Either way, I can't win. I can only feel confused.

*I'm sorry if I've upset anyone with the contents of today's blog but I'm not supposed to be worried about what anyone thinks. In other words, I'm sorry I'm being insensitive. I'm also sorry for being sensitive. Oh, and I'm sorry for being sorry about being sorry for being sorry. Sorry.

waahhh!

Call me paranoid. But I'm pretty certain. My children are trying to squash my career before it even gets off the ground. Even the baby's in on the act.

He won't let me put him down. Even when he's sleeping. He wakes with a squawk and a start. Then he wails. If I ignore him, he becomes frantic, screeching until my ear drums begin to swell. The worst part is--the second I pick him up, he smiles at me.

Damn! The little bugger loves me. He's actually pleased and happy--happy!--to see me. His eyes twinkle, he gurgles and stretches his little hands up to my face...ooh. You can't be mad at someone who is so delighted to see you. Even when they mess up your blog or your interview for an article, or a chapter to be revised. All you can do is hold him and wait for him to become independent...knowing deep in your heart, if you could, you'd keep him like this forever. A baby, one who needs you, one who loves you with his whole being. Because before too long, he'll be grown, too big for Mommy's arms, or her kiss. Too big for cuddles. Too big for songs and stories and rock-a-byes...

Maybe I don't mind it as much as I thought I did. Career--yeah, it might happen. But he'll grow, for sure. I think I'd best focus on what is sure, for now. Don't you?

Feng Sh**

We had a Feng Shui expert come and talk to our group (RIRW) on Saturday, addressing The Writer's Space.

She began by saying you should put your desk so that it faces the door; your back should never be to the entrance. And if you can't do that, you should angle a mirror so that you can see the goings-on in the room behind you. She also said that so many of her clients devote a tiny portion of space to their desks, putting them into a dark corner and piling clutter on top of them. If you want your work to be an important part of your life, you need to give it a prominant place in your life, remove the clutter, bring on the light (and the houseplant)!

My desk is wedged in a corner of the finished basement.

Um. You don't even need to have a BA in English to figure out THAT metaphor. My writing career is in the basement.

In fact...it's practically in the toilet, since there is one not five feet from my desk (behind a sliding panel-door). Hmmm. Feng shui? Feng sh**, I think. (Oh. Crap.)

So the task before me is to relocate my desk--if not out of the basement, at least out of the corner. There's not much I can do about the porcelain chair, unless I hire a plumber. Mostly, I should just make sure the door is closed at all times. And make sure the dog doesn't pull the roll of t.p. off the free-standing roll holder and begin biffing it around the legs of the desk.

Another thing the Feng Shui expert encouraged was to purge the space of all things with negative energy. I've tried this, but I just can't get my husband to stay outside. (I can write this, since he doesn't read my blog. He will however, read Curt Schilling's blog. Ha. Oh, all right. Only kidding. About putting my husband in the trash, not the Curt Schilling thing.)

I wonder if Curt has good Feng Shui? Perhaps that's why Bill will read his blog, and not mine.

I wonder if the infamous bloody sock has positive or negative energy? I guess it's subjective. Red Sox fan + bloody sock = good times. Yankee fan + bloody sock = 9 inning journey to Hell.

I betcha Curt's wife has a whole other energy about the sock. Something like, "Oh yeh. More $%#!ing laundry." Anyhow, that's Curt's desk/blog/career.

I'm talking about mine.

Okay. Move the desk, purge the negative objects. What else? Buy a plant. Maybe Curt will come over and help me.

Or maybe Manny will put my grill on ebay for me, and I can buy a whole new space altogether. Now that's good feng shui!

Just a hunka hunka burning...waah!

My notebook is dead. My daughter dropped it, cracking the casing and causing the pin that the charger hooks up to, to loosen.

We've been using a pointy-screwdriver thing to straighten it out so we could put the charger-thingy in there (sorry for all these technical terms; I know they're confusing to the lay person, but really--learn the jargon, folks!) and charge the battery. We used duck tape to keep it in place because it would fall out.

The other night, I noticed the charger-thingy was hot. And then, there was a dreadful burning smell...the next morning, the charger-thingy had melted. (Hmm...does that mean you're not supposed to duck tape the charger in place?) I ordered a new one from Gateway. I'm not surprised to discover that it doesn't appear to be connecting properly with the pin in order to charge.

So I'm stuck with the desktop. I hate the desktop. I have to battle my family to use it. My son uses it to play games. My daughter uses it to write stories about nine-year-old girls who angst and the horses who love them. My husband uses it to update his sports whatever they are--rotisserie baseball, March Madness brackets, and the thing they do during football season. I can't remember. It doesn't matter.

I sit in the chair, wipe the fingerprints off the monitor, add more paper to the printer, clean up all the disks left by the boy, organize all the pages left by the girl, close the windows left open by the husband. I straighten the desk, put away the pens and pencils, take the cups, bowls, glasses and utensils left by the computer to the dishwasher. I sponge the sticky mouse buttons, wipe away the rings left by spilled milk from bowls of cereal. Finally, when I get the space clean enough for me to feel comfortable I can start to write. I open the wip. I poise my fingers over the keyboard--

The baby starts to cry because his nap is over.

#$!%!

I keep telling myself to--gasp!--use a pen. But...but then...a pen? Paper? Writer's cramp and paper cuts. Damn you!

Oh, notebook...I miss you...

Thank you, Moody Muse

Quick! Go here:

http://themoodymuses.blogspot.com/

'Nuff said. And eloquently, too.


Cyn

Book Review

"If you ignore what I have to say, it really won't surprise me. I've come to find that most people ignore the dead."

Nice hook, huh? It's from a book entitled: The Worthy (A Ghost's Story), by Will Clarke.

Here's what the jacket says: ...The Worthy, a wickedly funny and frightening ghost story of unholy proportions about secret ties...thanks to a brutal hazing incident at Louisiana State University's Gamma Chi fraternity, Conrad is dead--a nineteen-year-old spirit suddenly without an earthly body.

Make no mistake, the newly deceased Conrad is one angry ghost, and the object of this wrath is chapter president Ryan Hutchins...

Out for revenge, Conrad possesses an unsuspecting pledge's body so he can finish what Ryan started, steering them toward a depraved confrontation with a surprising outcome that will leave readers gasping.

All right, I cut out a bit there. You'll have to find the book and read the book jacket yourself for a fuller synopsis. Better, read the book and enjoy the whole plot, complete with secondary characters, dialogue and a recipe for Translucent Lemon Pi. (as in 3.141592...)

One reason I really like this book--besides the fact that it's a page turner--is this notation in the acknowledgements section: I wrote The Worthy when I was twenty-six.* And on the very night that I typed the last period at the end of the final sentence**, I dreamed that Stephen King congratulated me for signing with Simon & Schuster, and then he gave me a ham sandwich.

Very cool. I'm now going to wait each night for Stephen King to visit my dreams, name my publisher, and bring me a sandwich. Hold the mayo, Steve...

Cyn

*Twenty-six! You lousy s.o.b., Will Clarke. I hate you.

**Hm. A linear writer. Interesting. I wonder if he's a pantser or a plotter?

For more information about Mr. Clarke and his other book, Lord Vishnu's Love Handles: A Spy Novel (Sort Of) --soon to be a movie--go here! http://www.booktourvirgin.blogs.com/ Make sure you scroll down the page to see a short video-interview with the man, himself; he's wearing a toga and a pink crown (but not, however, eating a ham sandwich). I like his pitch. He answers the question what's your book about, complete with hook. I could just picture him at a conference, crouched on a chair in front of a glaze-eyed editor, totally capturing his/her attention. (Even without the pink crown.) Nice job, Will!

I don't feel like writing today.

...basically, because I feel as if I suck. At writing, that is. As well as sucking at housework. I'm not kidding about the giant dust bunnies*, you know. One of them, big enough to swallow up my four-month-old son, rolled out from under my couch the other day. Thank God I was there to stop it before it did. We'd still be looking for him. And I'd have to explain it to my inlaws. "He was there, and then, he was gone. Look out! Here comes another one--stop it before it eats againnnnnnnnnnn..."

Sometimes, I think writing is just an excuse not to do housework. If only I'd write something marketable.

Ah well. There's always tomorrow.

Wait. Did you hear that? Sort of a whoosh-swish noise. Like, a big...oh no! Aaaaaaaaahhhhh...!

*ATTENTION: no dust bunnies were injured or mistreated during the making of this blog. I'd like to thank our dust bunny wrangler (who shall remain anonymous) for posting this photo of a stunt bunny to Google Images for my use.

All my bunnies are 100% natural dust, with no fillers or paper of any kind.

And you thought a blank page was frightening...

A blank blog is even worse.

I thought I'd start this particular blog with a quote, something really literary. (Anyone who knows me is already laughing. Literary?)

My writing is about as far from literary as you can get. Like, out in the remainder bin, on the sidewalk outside of the store. But here's how one person defines the genre of literary fiction (which, incidentally, is supposed to be the anti-genre. Go figure. I can't.): "...fiction that is of higher quality, richer, denser, or, as the literary fiction book club states, work that 'can make us uncomfortable or can weave magic.''

Uncomfortable? I can write that. (Hey! I just noticed, if you put an h after the t in write, you get writhe...talk about uncomfortable. But that's for another blog.) I'm not sure about magic weaving. I like to think I write/writhe magic, or even magically. Most writers do. Probably because we've had too many Starbucks. Yet, even under the influence of mucho java most of the literary fiction I've read hasn't woven any magic for me.

It has, however, made me feel rather stupid. (Not difficult.) Written by people trying very hard to sound profound (hey, that rhymes), they write about the most profound thing they can imagine. Death. So they kill off their protagonist at the end of the story.

One article I've read sums it up this way:

"Tales from the Cryptic (AKA All's Well That Ends)
This is the great practical joker of the literary world, with a pedigree going back to the original shaggy-dog story. The reader is lulled by interesting characters and maybe even a whiff or two of plot. We read dozens of pages. Characters converge and interact. Things happen. Then we reach a conclusion that seems to bear no relationship to the previous text. For example -- two people meet and have tea. Halfway around the world, a butterfly dies. The end. We are left as clueless about the ending as the author. " (you can find the rest of this article, "A Guide to Literary Fiction" Copyright © 2002 by David Lubar at: http://www.davidlubar.com/litfic.html )

Thank you, David Lubar. You are my hero. I'd kiss your feet, but my blog is not that kind of a place.

Not today, anyway.