Procrastination Rehabilitation

If you're still getting this...

2011-04-12T05:00:00.001-04:00

You shouldn't be. I've moved! Come on over and join me at http://delia-moran.blogspot.com/. Hope to see you there.

Moving Day

2011-04-01T02:00:00.002-04:00

No, this is not an April Fool's joke. That's why I announced it on Tuesday. The Nor'Easter we're having at the moment, also not a joke. I wish the weather people had all joined together for one big nyuk at our expense. But alas, snow. (Which, incidentally, I'll take over radioactive water leaks any day of the week and thrice on Tuesday. Ignore my whining.)

Today is moving day. It's been a good run here at the old procrastinatory digs. But, as Megan pointed out, I'm done procrastinating the important things. It was a long road, but I've gotten to a place where I now consider my writing to be work, not a hobby. I do that work steadily and with great zeal. It's frikin' amazing.

As such, I'm making the leap. My new blog, Write, damn it., is located at http://delia-moran.blogspot.com/. I would ask that you please change your links/subscriptions/etc. accordingly.

Don't be surprised if, when you get there, it looks about the same as here. I liked this design, so I kept it. Also, the complete post history has been transferred. So if you're looking for something (Julie), you should be able to find it.

Ultimately, it's pretty much going to be me, same as it was here. But the overall address/theme will have adjusted to the writerly bent this blog has taken on over the course of the past year.

I hope you'll join me.

This may well be annoying.

2011-03-29T05:00:00.001-04:00

For the past week or so, I've been preparing myself to enter the professional writing world. Not by studying up on writing or editing -- that's an ongoing process -- but by learning how to present myself, as a writer, in a professional manner.

We all decided last week that my name choice of Delia Moran was a good one. In the interest of consistency, I've decided to incorporate my name into the name of my blog.

What that means for all of you is that, as of next Monday, you'll no longer find me here. I'll be posting all the forwarding instructions on Friday, but this is your warning. Next Monday, we're moving to new digs.

Don't worry (Julie), the new digs will pretty much look like the old digs. There will be a new address and blog title, but everything else will essentially be the same. Oh, and if you'll consent to do so, you'll have to re-follow or re-subscribe to the feed. And yes, you can unfollow this before you re-follow the other. Is this still making sense? Also, I'll leave this blog up for a couple months with a link to the new blog, for anyone who may be late to the party.

So that's it. Full instructions and directions to the new place will be forthcoming on Friday. I hope you'll see fit to make the jump with me.

In the meantime, any requests? Anything I don't have on this blog that you'd like to see on the next? Let me know and I'll try to oblige you.

Nobody Cares

2011-03-25T05:00:00.001-04:00

Make your own name tag!

On Tuesday's episode of As the Writer Frets, we watched as Delia tried to figure out what the hell her last name should be. We even took A Poll. The result?

The overwhelming majority of my fellow procrastinators do not give a rat's ass.

Which, of course, means I've been fretting over absolutely nothing. Well, maybe not nothing. I'm sure if I ever manage to get myself into a publishing situation, the others involved will think it's quite something.

Also, there were many good folks who were kind enough to share their thoughts in the comments. The general lean seemed to be toward my maiden name, Mexican purse designer be damned. (Not really. She makes lovely purses.) While this has been my inclination all along, I think I let what all the "experts" had to say on the subject make me fickle. I needed that push from all of you to finalize it, so thanks for that. From here on out, you'll see a last name next to my first.

Hi. I'm Delia Moran, writer of speculative fiction. Welcome to my blog.

A Question for the Ages. Kind of.

2011-03-22T05:00:00.005-04:00

I'm a writer, but I'm not yet a published author. As such, the question of pen names seems a touch on the premature side to me. Like I'm not just counting my chickens before they hatch, I'm also inscribing their painstakingly chosen names on the sides of their eggs in gilt. My inclination is to worry about the issue of my name if (when) someone decides they'd like to publish my work.

Except.

Here's the deal. I have a unique name. Not an unusual name, a unique name. As in, if you Googled my first and last names in combination, you'd come up with me and only me. Well, isn't that good? I hear someone say. Wouldn't that be great brand recognition? To which I say, hmmmm....could be.

But it also provides no anonymity. What I mean is, a Google search would lead a prospective reader to me and no one else (provided they spelled my name correctly, which is another problem entirely), but it also would list everything else connected to me and no one else. Like when my kids were in the paper for making the honor roll. Or when I wrote a letter of opposition that time they wanted to build a twenty-two house subdivision on the wetlands across the street. Or my dad's obituary (happy birthday, Dad). See the problem?

So then, I thought I'd just go with my maiden name. Because Lord knows, I'm vain enough that if this ever gets published, I want some form of my own damn name on it. Trouble is, publishers generally want their authors to have websites. You know, nameofauthorDotCom? However, mymaidennameDotCom happens to be taken by a Mexican purse designer. Turns out, if you stick an accent mark over one of the vowels, my Irish name turns Mexican. Who knew?

Now I feel like I'm stuck. Every agent/editor blog out there tells aspirants to this business to Work on Your Platform and Build Your Readership and Get Your Name Out There! But I can't. Because I have no name.

It's a quandary.

What's your opinion on the matter? If you're an author, have you chosen a pen name? If you're a reader, do they matter to you? There's a poll in the side bar for those of you who no likey the commenting. (Though, really, you shouldn't be shy. I'm not a meanie or anything. Promise.) Any prospective solutions would be greatly appreciated.

P.S.
This is what the second day of spring looks like around here.

My Road

My Yard

Now, don't you feel better about wherever you live? You're Welcome.

Whatever works for ya.

2011-03-18T05:00:00.001-04:00

Look, I know I'm something like the eleven millionth blogger to do this, but I'm going to do it anyway. Fair warning.

So, okay, we here in Blogspot land have a little tab called "Stats" we can click to see how well we're doing. You know, number wise. As part of this beautiful feature, the good folks at Google keep track of what search terms people have typed in to find our blogs.

Now, I don't normally get too many odd things. Folks search various combinations of procrastination and rehabilitation and wind up here. If I post a picture, I'll occasionally get a visitor searching for that picture. Nothing special.

Until.

Recently, I wrote a bleak and somber post regarding a pair of pretty shoes I'd ordered which did not fit properly. (I'm still all sad about that, by the way.) Anyway, that post has led to a few folks finding me. Was it the shoes, you ask? No. No, indeed.

It was the toe cleavage.

That's right. Since that post, several good people have found my blog by Googling the phrase "toe cleavage." Don't think about that for too long, you may develop the urgent need for a shower. And socks.

So tell me? Have you ever ~~searched for toe cleavage~~ conducted a search and wound up someplace you weren't expecting? ~~Get your freak on~~ Share your embarrassment here.

Funnies

2011-03-15T05:00:00.001-04:00

Lists! I don't usually love them, but others around here do. So I thought what I'd do today is cater to the list crowd (Lora).

Today's topic: The top five comedies I watch over and over and over again. And then again. I'm a huge movie buff. Given the choice between a cheesy movie I've never seen and a television show I know I'll like, I'll almost always choose the movie. (The almost is for Project Runway because, Hells Yeah, Tim Gunn.)

For the record, when given the choice between those two things and a fresh new book, the book wins every time. Sorry, Tim.

Anyway, here are my go to, never fail to make me laugh comedies. (If you're paying attention, you'll probably learn a little something about me here.) They are, in no particular order:

For those of you feeling a little cheated because I left out descriptions (though, I generously provided links, what more do you want?), here's a little bonus. The theatrical trailer for Big Trouble, which is funny as hell and you should watch it immediately.

Now you know my favorites. Please share yours. I'm always looking for new stuff. (And if you've got any good books...)

While you're laughing, please don't forget those who aren't.
For your convenience:
Donate to the American Red Cross.
Donate to Shelterbox.

You Don't Need This Reminder, But...

2011-03-11T22:47:00.000-05:00

I'm sure you've all heard about Japan and the earthquake and the tsunami by now. Here's your official reminder to go donate and help these people out.

Now, a donation to the American Red Cross never goes amiss. If, however, you are looking for something additional, or just different, consider going over to author Maureen Johnson's and following the directions to donate to Shelterbox. It's a fantastic organization and, bonus for you, Maureen is giving away prizes to people who donate. It started with her giving one of her books to a random donor, then a whole bunch of other authors of awesomeness threw their own books onto the prize pile.

So donate. And if you go Maureen Johnson's way, you may actually get rewarded for your good heartedness.

Real Posts are Overrated

2011-03-11T05:00:00.001-05:00

Last night I attended my uncle's wake. He was my father's brother, one of ten siblings, most born in the 1920's. There's only one of them left, my Uncle Tom. He's eighty-seven, in the early stages of Alzheimer's, and, at several points in the evening, wasn't quite sure where he was or why he was there. It's depressing.

I've had enough depressing for a while. So, rather than regale you with stories of my childhood and family, I'm simply going to say, rest well, Uncle John. You'll be missed.

Then I'm going to give you this to watch because it's funny and I could use the funny. Enjoy. (Sorry about the video going out of the lines all higgledy-piggledy like that. It can't be helped.)

See you all Tuesday.

Da Vinci and Me

2011-03-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

H. Jackson Brown, Jr., author of Life's Little Instruction Book, is quoted as saying, “Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.”

Do I need to point out that five of these seven people never married or had children? Thomas Jefferson and family lived here (and owned several hundred slaves, I might add). And Louis Pasteur, had this woman for a wife. Somehow I don't think Tom and Louie were the ones watching the kids.

All of which is to say, I can't seem to get anything done while the kids are awake. Which, in turn, means I'm staying up way too late to get my work done and I'm so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open right now. And now I'm whining again, and I really don't want to be whining. Because if this is how I need to get the revision done, then this is how I get the revision done, right? Right.

Therefore! Rather than whine at you (Too late!), I'll give you this. The single best, and worst, thing I have ever, ever seen --

The Nutella Snack & Drink. Iced tea, crunchy little sticks, and Nutella to dip them. It is a blessing from above that this is not readily available in this country, because I'd eat the holy hell out of that thing.

Right. I'm going to go stare at the insides of my eyelids, now. I hope you're all getting better sleep than I am. (And I hope the alarm clock actually wakes me up instead of becoming some weird soundtrack to an even weirder dream. About Nutella.)

The Dangers of Mail Order

2011-03-04T05:00:00.001-05:00

Remember Tuesday when I said I was waiting for my new red shoes to come in the mail so I could dance around in them? They came that day. But they didn't fit right. There was major toe cleavage -- unattractive, to say the least. I am disappointment personified because, honey, these were some pretty shoes. See?

Softspots (R) Studio Pump

They're even prettier in person. And I didn't pay anywhere close to full price for them. It was serendipitous. Until the toe cleavage. (If you're looking at that picture and thinking, "How did she have toe cleavage in those?" Let me save you the suspense. I have huge feet.)

Can you tell my brain is mush yet? I'm blogging about ill-fitting shoes. This is sad.

In other news, my youngest is finally on the mend after over a month of illness. I cannot begin to express how wonderful this is. The poor kid hasn't been outside to play in ages. In fact, because he has been sick and his big brother was still recuperating from his sickness, none of my kids have left the house all week. It's vacation week. And no one has left the house.

I'll tell you what, it's getting on my nerves. So, if everyone is still operating at a normal temperature tomorrow, Magnum and I will be hauling them all to the movie theater to see Rango. This will basically force me to take a day away from edits, which I really don't have time to do right now, but it's worth it to break up the stir crazy running around this joint.

Wow. This is all sounding really whiny. And, you know what, I don't have cause to whine. (Except about the laundry, but that's perpetual. Curse you laundry!) I completed my manuscript this week and I'm rewarding myself with key lime truffles today. And to top it all off, everyone's healthy (kind of). Not a bad week at all.

How'd your week go? Accomplish anything? Let us know in the comments so we can attaboy/attagirl appropriately.

Of Deadlines and Resolutions

2011-03-01T01:55:00.002-05:00

Hey. Remember back in January when I said this:

"So, first resolution: Finish the damned first draft The Novel by the end of February. Why? Because January promises to be an even weirder month than December and deadlines are only useful tools if they're realistic."

Remember? Well, as it turns out, that wasn't a realistic deadline either. Now, I could go on to list all the sicknesses and snow days and every other crappy thing that happened during January and February, but it wouldn't change this one, simple fact. On February 28th at 11:59 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, the first draft of my manuscript was still incomplete.

I'm not going to let it get me down, though. Do you know why? Because I am a positive person. I engage in positive thinking. And, uh, also because at 1:19 a.m. on March 1st, the first draft of my manuscript was freaking done! D.O.N.E. Baby!

That's right, the oft revised and rewritten first draft now has THE END typed at the very bottom. There is still much work to be done before it's presentable, but I FREAKING DID IT! And if the red shoes I ordered last week come today, I'm totally dancing around in them. Also, to celebrate, I ate a key lime truffle. Nectar of the gods. Seriously.

So, soon it will be beta reader time. Which means: Clever, Kris, I need your contact info. Email me at dmarcinuk (at) gmail (dot) com and we'll see about getting this party started.

Good night, all. (Or, y'know, good morning.) I'm off to wake Magnum and shout WooHoo! at him. Wooo Hoooo!

Of Sickness and Muppets

2011-02-25T05:00:00.002-05:00

Hooo Doggy, has this been a crazy week. I won't get into everything, because crazy for me often equals boring for everyone else. As Inigo Montoya would say, let me sum up. Two boys are still coughing, but not enough to keep them home from school. The baby is on antibiotics for a double ear infection and just-getting-started sinus infection. After four days of eating pretty much nothing -- yesterday, he ate. I am one relieved mama.

Mama duties have pretty much taken over this month. Between birthday parties, sicknesses, and basketball playoffs (and school and homework and CCD which isn't called CCD anymore but I can't seem to think of it any other way, and, and, and), there has been nary a moment to write. I have, therefore, been putting in some late nights. And sleeping through alarm clocks. It's been stressful.

In an effort to alleviate the stress, I have taken it upon myself to educate my children in the finer things in life. Because, while they have great stuff like iPods and YouTube, they have really missed out on a lot of other great stuff. Better stuff, if I may be so bold.

In place of fantastically written comedies like WKRP in Cincinnati, they have crap they can't even watch because it's completely inappropriate, like Jersey Shore. (I refuse to link to that shite.) When I was a kid, I used to get to stay up late on Friday nights to watch my favorite shows. For them, there's no point. What are they going to watch, CSI [insert your favorite crime-ridden city here]? They're eleven.

They don't even recognize a Muppet unless it's Elmo. Back in my day (because apparently I'm both ancient and clichéd), we had cool Muppets. Really, who's cooler than Dr. Teeth? (Okay, I'll give you Floyd. That cat was cool. And Janice. Okay, all of The Electric Mayhem. Happy?) Clearly, they're missing out.

Yesterday was education day. And by "education" day, I mean, "they wouldn't stop interrupting me long enough for me to work so I might as well" day. We watched The Muppet Show in small, segmented bursts on YouTube. Lest you do the unforgivable and forget the awesome, I give you: Coconut.

Were you a child of the seventies or eighties? What shows/music do you miss? Let me know. I can't have my kids growing up on Snooki. I just...can't.

Who's still sick?

2011-02-22T05:00:00.003-05:00

We are! Okay, not we per se, but the boys are. It's getting ridiculous around here. Two weeks ago, this house was clean enough to throw a party. Now it looks like a candidate for How Clean Is Your House? Or not. (Seriously, have you ever seen that show? I promise, I do not have mouse droppings in my stove burners. Ew.)

Anyway...I have been filling every moment I can with writing/editing/rewriting the Damn Novel (as evidenced by the general inability to walk through my living room without tripping on a toy) and my brain is mush. Therefore, you get pictures! (You're welcome, Magoo.)

These are the placeholder pictures I've used for four of the main characters in the Damn Novel. Yes, I said, "...four of the... ." It's a big cast. Also, I won't be telling you the character's names, because that kinda gives away some stuff I'm not ready to give away yet.

And, yes, they're all dark and gorgeous for a reason. Actually, it took me a while to find people who looked enough like the people in my head to content me. It probably would have been quicker, but I needed unknowns. Or, at least, people unknown to me. If I stuck Catherine Zeta-Jones in there, I'd be channeling Catherine Zeta-Jones while I wrote, and that wouldn't do. So I got these good folks. (The names I listed are their actual names, in case you want to IMDB them and gawk or something.)

Also important was the expression in the picture. I wanted it to be an expression that particular character would likely make. There were many actors who probably would've fit the bill if I could have found the right picture. It was a long damn process. Anyway...

Here goes:

Main Character (Claudia Black)

Main Character's Love Interest (Erik Fellows)

Main Character's Aunt (Kim Director)

Major Complication (Erryn Arkin)

Right. So there ya go -- eye candy. That's about as deep as I get these days. Now, where's my Lysol...?

We Wants It

2011-02-19T09:43:00.003-05:00

Kiersten White, YA author extraordinaire, is having a little blogular contest wherein one can win a personalized copy of her novel, Paranormalcy (among other things). One of the ways to enter to win is to post the cover art of the sequel, Supernaturally, on your blog, twitter, facebook, etc.

We wants it. Oh yes, Precious, we do.

So here it is, the cover of Supernaturally. Ain't it purty? Purty enough to be my entry, anyway. Have a great weekend, everyone.

The Plague

2011-02-18T09:49:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, yesterday was the Blogfest! If you didn't get a chance to check out the writerly goodness, you can go here to do so. Some of the entries came in late (it is a curse that writers generally need day jobs), and I expect a couple more today, so click around if you don't want to miss any (and you don't). A huge THANK YOU to everyone who joined me. It was so much fun!

As to regular life, I regret to say that the plague has hit my house once again. This is somewhere around the fourth time it's come through, though it's hard to say really. With six people in the house, germs seem to take their sweet-ass time traveling and one sickness ends up blending into another. Suffice it to say, there have been more days this winter where people have been sick than when everyone's been well. Quite often, I've been among the sick.

What does this mean for me? Well it means I'm not getting any work done, that's for damn sure. Right now, I've got three boys who are letting coughs and tissues fly with reckless abandon. They're also watching Despicable Me on endless loop (which, btw, is hilarious, in case you haven't seen it).

Magnum is home today, so I'm going to try to sneak away and get some work done. Not sure if it'll take, though. In the meantime, I'll leave you with something a little happier, more bouncy, than this post (and the one yesterday, for that matter).

Happy Friday, everyone.

This Is Totally My Idiom Blogfest!

2011-02-17T00:00:00.004-05:00

It's time! It's time! It's my first blogfest and I'm very excited. A HUGE thanks to everyone who joined. I can't wait to read your entries! The theme for this blogfest, as set out here, was to integrate an idiom into your story/scene. You can access all the entries by clicking the links below (and if you have some last minute magic you want to sign up and throw at us, you can do that, too). Happy Reading!

My own entry is below. My idiom of choice was, "in the blink of an eye." Let me know what you think in the comments. And don't forget to stop by all the other excellent entries and show them the love.

Thirty-Three

I blink, and it's been thirty-one years. We go to the same restaurant where we celebrated her birthday. It's our special occasion place. We come back to it for the memories, year after year, even though the food has gone downhill a bit. Well, not last year. Last year the kids threw us a party because the number was round, but this year it's just the two of us. She looks beautiful in a dress she fretted over for days, her fingernails all trimmed and polished. I thought she looked beautiful when she woke up this morning, that the other stuff wasn't really necessary, and I tell her so. She waves me off and rolls her eyes, but I see her smile and I know that it matters to her. I squeeze her hand and say Happy Anniversary, Love. And then I

Blink

And the doctor wants to see us both. It's never good news when they do that, is it? I'm glad he did, though. Marvin got news of his tumor over the phone. I don't know if it was his doctor's laziness or cowardice, but I'm glad her doctor doesn't suffer the same condition. I'm glad I'm there to hold her hand and wipe her face and nod when she says we'll beat it, won't we John? And then I

Blink

And they say she's in remission and the kids throw her a party. It's not as big as the anniversary party because she's still so tired from the treatments. But her hair has grown back to a fuzzy, curly thatch on her head -- soft as a newborn's. I toussle it whenever I go by and she swats at my hand even as she smiles. I pray every night that the weariness will disappear from her smile soon. I think it may be working. But then I

Blink

And she's back in the hospital again. I want to stay, but she won't let me because it's silly for two people to stay in the hospital when only one person is sick. And anyway, who'll drive us home if we're both so tired from sleeping here? No one gets good sleep in the hospital, I ought to know that by now, she says. And I do. I wait until her eyes close and slip away, driving home to a bed that's too empty without her. I do my weeping there, where she can't see how scared I am. And then I

Blink

And the kids are there. Catherine, our youngest, tried to bring in some of her favorite lilies from her garden, but the smell made her sick and we gave them to the nurses instead. Catherine is reading to her now, one of her romance novels. I joke about how trashy it all is and say something about bodices ripping then excuse myself to the cafeteria. But really I go to the men's room down the corridor because the book wasn't about trash. It was about longing and passion and the down-to-the-bone need of another person and I can't be there for that, not without upsetting us both. So I go. I get a cup of coffee once I've gathered myself. She's asleep when I get back. She sleeps so much these days. Catherine has her left hand and I move to the other side of the bed to take her right. And then I

Blink

And it's our thirty-third anniversary. I'm trying to get her to eat something, but the inside of her mouth burns. Even the jell-o is a trial for her. I offer to get her a smoothy from the place down the street. She cringes at the mention of it and I drop the subject, thankful for the IV. Then I

Blink

And they say there's nothing more they can do. I can take her home if I like, but she won't let me. She doesn't want me dealing with those tubes and bags, it embarrasses her. I'm ashamed because I'm relieved. Not because of the tubes and bags, I'd do that for her without question. But I don't want this to happen there, not in our home. I don't want this memory to pollute the happier ones where she laughed and we made love. She tells me to go home, to get my rest, but I can't leave. I can't. I think she knows it, too, because she stops after a while. Maybe she's just tired, or it hurts to much to keep trying. I don't know. But I stay, and I hold her hand because it's the only thing I know to do. The kids come in and out and try to smile no matter how weak her responses have become. And then I

Blink

And she's gone.

So there it is. I hope you liked it, but you won't hurt my feelings if you didn't. Enjoy the rest of the fest! (I'm sure the rest of the entries aren't this depressing.)

Teachable Moments

2011-02-15T05:00:00.001-05:00

Warning: This post goes on for-freaking-ever.

My twins turned eleven a few weeks back. For various reasons, including that I find it amazingly stressful to throw a party, they (and their little brother, in with whom they are lumped due to birthday proximity) didn't have their party until this weekend.

Being typical eleven year olds, they didn't particularly care to wait until February to receive gifts for a January birthday. So what happened was, they got a birthday present on their actual birthday (a trip to GameStop), and then a small gift at their party (a CD each).

Though they are twins, my son and daughter are very different people. And being different people, they have very different tastes in music. My son's current favorite band is Alter Bridge; my daughter's favorite is Taylor Swift. Personally, I don't give a rodent's posterior unless there is swearing. Or, I didn't. Until...

My daughter's other favorite is Paramore. Taylor Swift and Paramore have something in common. Allow me to illustrate. Here are some lyrics from one of the girl's favorite Paramore songs (Misery Business):

I'm in the business of misery
Let's take it from the top
She's got a body like an hourglass
That's ticking like a clock
It's a matter of time
Before we all run out
When I thought he was mine
She caught him by the mouth

I waited eight long months
She finally set him free
I told him I couldn't lie
He was the only one for me
Two weeks and we caught on fire
She's got it out for me
But I wear the biggest smile

Whoa, I never meant to brag
But I got him where I want him now
Whoa, it was never my intention to brag
To steal it all away from you now

But God, does it feel so good
'Cause I got him where I want him now
And if you could then you know you would
'Cause God, it just feels so
It just feels so good

Right. That's just a sample (it gets worse). Here's one from Taylor Swift (Better Than Revenge):

Now go stand in the corner
And think about what you did
Ha, time for a little revenge

The story starts when it was hot and it was summer
And I had it all, I had him right there where I wanted him
She came along, got him alone, and let's hear the applause
She took him faster than you can say sabotage

I never saw it coming, wouldn't have suspected it
I underestimated just who I was dealing with
She had to know the pain was beating on me like a drum
She underestimated just who she was stealing from

She's not a saint, and she's not what you think
She's an actress, whoa
She's better known for the things that she does
On the mattress, whoa

Soon she's gonna find stealing other people's toys
On the playground won't make you many friends
She should keep in mind, she should keep in mind
There is nothing I do better than revenge, ha

Are we sensing a pattern? Aside from having to deal with the question of "the things that she does on the mattress, whoa," this raises my personal woman hackles. Seriously, what the hell? Hayley Williams of Paramore and Taylor Swift were born in 1988 and 1989, respectively. Aside from making me feel hella-old, it's got me scratching my head. Weren't we past that crap by then? I thought so, but I guess I was wrong.

However, since I can't really ban her from listening to this stuff (all of her friends do, she's going to hear it anyway), I've had to sit down and have Talks with her. Talks with titles like: You Can't Steal a Person from Another Person, They're Not Objects and They Have Minds of Their Own. And the ever popular: If He's Going to Chase After Every Pretty Girl He Sees, You're Better Off Without Him, Please Don't Take Him Back Ever. And then I have to go have the same talks with my son because, hey, equal opportunity.

By contrast, this is my son's favorite song (Alter Bridge - White Knuckles):

Are you still lost tonight?
Living but dead inside?
This is a proclamation
This is a call to rise

Are you abused, alone?
Walking with broken bones?
If you feel you've been forgotten
Let this song guide you home

We are the disillusioned
We've been left wanting more
Before every aspiration hits the floor

[Chorus:]
Hold on for your life
All we feel is so far from alive
The damned are done believing
The cursed can dream no more
So hold on for your life
Because only the strong survive

They tell you what you should be
Sell you the plastic dream
Opinions are all provided
But nothing is what it seems

I dare you to take control
Cause empty are hands and
Bruised are the souls
Of those who show no resistance
Of those who are weak below

We are the disenchanted
Who die with each passing day
No one here understands us so I say

[Chorus]

How will it feel?
To live a lie until your dying day
Where nothing is real
As we sacrifice bending until we break
It's been revealed

Hold on for your life
Dreams are not theirs to take...
Dreams are not theirs to take

[Chorus]

You see the difference? All of the same angst, some of the same self-pity, but accompanied by a challenge -- a dare to take control and change it if you don't like it.

Why can't the girls write songs like that? Why the overriding import of keeping a man or getting him back once he's "stolen?" Gah! It makes me nuts. So, because of female songwriters who set their insecurities to snappy music, I now have to hound my daughter. She probably stopped listening to me a while ago. But, hey, I'm competing with a catchy rhyme. I try to be in her ears often enough to counteract pop culture.

It's a battle I'll probably lose. But like the lottery says, you can't win if you don't play. I'll take Alter Bridge's advice and Rise.

Slightly disjointed.

2011-02-11T05:00:00.002-05:00

All right, I'm back. Not exactly in top form, but here nonetheless. (A huge thank you to all who stopped by on Tuesday. It was appreciated.)

First, a reminder that there is one more week until the This Is Totally My Idiom Blogfest goes live. Still plenty of time to join in the blogfesty goodness.

If you've tried to join and the linky widget wasn't working, I apologize. Apparently, the owner of Linky Tools decided he couldn't foot the bill by himself anymore and switched to a paid subscription format. Which is fine, except he did it with extremely short notice and cancelled all the active widgets pending their subscription payment. Not quite a bait and switch, but still -- not cool, Linky Tools. Either way, I've moved the links to another widget and all should be well. But if anyone has a problem, or if I've missed anyone, please let me know right away and I'll tend to it.

Second, I'm working on the Damn Novel and finally closing in on the end. I've been doing a whole poopload of rewriting as I go, so I'm hoping to have a beta-ready draft by mid-March. I realize that a done draft is not even close to a done novel, but holy shit is it a milestone.

If any of the faithful here have the ability to do a read through for me on a tight schedule (by the end of March), and are also willing to be brutally honest with me (yes, you too, Julie), let me know in the comments or shoot me an email and I'll get in touch. Really, I'd love your input. And if that input is to suggest that I should hang it up because there is enough suffering in the world without me adding my steaming pile of verbal spew to it, I want to know that, too. So, as I said, brutal honesty only, please.

Last, have I mentioned how much I hate cleaning? I mean, I do it and stuff, because I have to, but I hate it. Especially the *all together, now* laundry.

Legend has it that in the dark of winter, when the children go sledding and change their clothes fifty times a day, the laundry monster grows tall and powerful. Road salt and muddy slush feed him. He takes the couch as his domain, growing fatter with each passing day.

Today, we tear him limb from socky limb. Pray we don't get swallowed. And if you don't hear from me on Tuesday, please, for the love of all that is holy, SEND A MAID.

Goodbye

2011-02-08T05:00:00.001-05:00

Well. I was going to do a blog post about finishing up the Damn Novel and beta readers and critique partners and all sorts of other stuff, but then yesterday turned out to be a majorly bad day.

Yesterday we had to put down our 7 year old chocolate lab, Cassia. A few weeks ago, she developed a sore on her shoulder. We thought she had scraped herself. We cleaned it out for her and went about our business. By yesterday, that sore was a baseball-sized tumor and there was another coming in on her belly. We (and the vet) determined that there was nothing more we could do for her that wouldn't be prolonging the inevitable. She didn't come back home.

Oh, and did I mention it's my youngest son's birthday today? So we have that to do, too. And a party on Saturday.

Needless to say, it's a rough week. I hope you'll excuse me if I lay low.

Bye, Cassia. You were a good girl.

Break Time

2011-02-04T05:00:00.001-05:00

Remember that cough I mentioned about a month ago? The one that wouldn't go away? Yeah, still here. This week, Mother Nature added a head cold. I guess she figured I needed some balance.

So I've been trying to work through the lovely fog that has settled into my skull, but it's like the Grand Banks in here and my mind's eye is blind as a mole.

This is what it looks like in my brain right now:

It's a little slow, kind of smokey, and quite bizarre at times, but that might just be the cold medicine. I'm hoping that after some rest, some vitamin ingestion, and quite a bit more cold medicine, I'll feel more like this:

...except with writing. Wish me luck.

Is it normal to be this nervous the first time?

2011-02-01T05:00:00.001-05:00

So the other night I'm sitting at my 'puter and Magnum says, "Hey hon, look at this." I don't really want to get up, but I pry my ass out of the chair anyway and go into the other room where he's sitting in front of the other computer.

"What?" I say.

"Look," he says, pointing at the screen.

It's TurboTax. He'd been working on our taxes, which I probably should have known, but I was chewing on a sticky little plot point -- you know, trying to soften it up a bit to get to the juicy center -- so I wasn't exactly paying attention.

I bend in to have a better look. And then I have to look again. Because, see, I knew we were getting some credits this year -- energy credit for the new wood stove we bought to replace the old clunker, that type of thing -- but I had no idea what the actual effect was going to be on the tax return bottom line. It was not insignificant.

"What do you want to do with it?" Magnum says.

"Well, the kids are getting braces next year, so we should probably put it away for that."

"Yeah, you're right," he says, a little disappointed, I think, that I hadn't suggested he break out the Cabela's catalogue.

So, jokingly, I say, "Or, I could go to that writing conference I told you about." Just jokingly, you understand. Anyway, long story short (Too late!), I'm going to my first writer's conference at the end of April.

My first reaction to this was, "WooHoooooo!!!!" My second reaction was, "Holy shit, I'm going to have to talk to people. Like, professional people who know what they're doing. And I'm going to have to mingle. And, ohdearGod, network. I'm going to have to network!"

When I came to and swatted the paper bag off of my face, I shared my slight nervousness with Magnum. To which, he replied, "Totally normal."

Is it? I don't know. I think I'm a touch more nervous than a normal person would be. Am I blowing this out of proportion? Because I am extremely psyched that I get to go to a conference where the formidable Lani Diane Rich a.k.a. Lucy March will be a featured speaker. I'm really, really looking forward to that. An obscene amount of really.

But I have to wonder, is it normal to be this nervous? Or am I a complete freak? (Yes, I know those aren't necessarily mutually exclusive. Just pretend, okay?)

Dreamy

2011-01-28T09:47:00.001-05:00

There are plenty of writers out there who claim to get their material from dreams. Stephenie Meyer says she came up with the idea for Twilight in a dream. A guy in my writer's group is hard at work on a dystopian steampunk novella which, he says, he dreamed. The whole thing. Including the plot.

I'll admit to using a dream snippet from time to time. In fact, the dream sequence at the beginning of The Top of the Stairs was an actual dream of mine. I used to have it all the time when I was a kid. It was the only recurring dream I've ever had, and I haven't had it since I was prepubescent. But back then, I it came to me so often that I need only close my eyes to see it again.

It didn't lead to much, though. A tiny short story with no plot is all I've ever gotten out of it. It troubles me, because I feel like I'm wasting a resource.

I dream vividly, and I remember many of my dreams. They're not generally useful, though. Often, they're disjointed and ridiculous. Take last night for example. I took a bus to Scotland. A bus. Once there, I attended an academic lecture. About what, I don't know. When it was over, I went looking for a person I'd seen during the lecture; I had to tell her something about my socks. I ended up in a room full of carved wooden ducks and geese. The lecturer caught me there and yelled at me because I wasn't supposed to be in that room. However, by the end of the conversation, he was offering me a duck that I'd been admiring in particular. Then he offered me a boat and a large outboard motor to go with it. I declined on the grounds that I didn't think I'd be able to get a boat and motor through customs, and they probably wouldn't have any room on the cruise ship I was taking to get home, anyway. We were still arguing about customs when I woke up.

It's the single most useless dream-plot ever. So, today I find myself wallowing in dream-plot envy. Why can't I have great dreams? Like vampires kissing their food in meadows type dreams?

Ah, well. Whine, whine, whine, meep. I guess I'll have to continue to use my conscious brain, which makes this post pretty useless. Except, I have been wondering, have you ever had a dream that led to a story? Do your dreams inspire your creations? Let me know. I'm going to try and figure out what was so interesting about my socks.

Do-Over

2011-01-25T05:30:00.002-05:00

As you may know, last Friday I took part in a blogfest hosted by the lovely Tessa Conte. The challenge was to write a story (or scene, but I went with story) featuring either cake, presents, birthdays, or candles in 500-1,000 words. My entry is here.

I tend to go into these blogfests viewing them as writing exercises. I choose them either because they're a topic I wouldn't normally touch, or they allow enough leeway for me to challenge myself in a particular area. This last blogfest was the latter.

I have a tendency to rely a great deal on dialogue in my writing. If I can't work in gobs of dialogue, I'll often opt for a first-person point of view, which allows the actual narration to feel a great deal like dialogue. I can "talk" to you without making the characters do it. No middle man. It's fantastic. It's also rife with lazy on my part.

In Tessa's blogfest, the challenge I set for myself was to write a story in a third person point of view with no real dialogue. I only succeeded on two counts: the POV and the dialogue. The problem is, I failed to write a story. Yes, I did.

Here's the deal. There are whole pooploads of elements that go into making a story. I'm not going to go into all of them, but there's one in particular that's missing. It's an incredibly important one. Those of you who are writers may have already noticed. There's no conflict. There's no conflict; therefore, there's no plot.

Pretty much every story you'll ever read (that has been vetted by an editor and published) has a plot. Which is to say, there is a protagonist who wants something. Stuff gets in the way of the protagonist getting what (s)he wants. (Cinderella wants to get her home back. Evil stepmother/sisters want to keep her a slave.) This is conflict. Generally conflict escalates until the climax resolves the story. (Cinderella sneaks off to the ball, loses her shoe, then gets locked in the tower. She escapes the tower, tries on the shoe, and wins the prince. Victory!)

I had a beginning and an ending. The woman in my story, April, wanted to join her husband in the beginning; in the end she did. But there was no middle. She never had to overcome anything. It could be argued that her struggle was internal, that she had to overcome her own inhibitions. That she had to listen to the subconscious voice telling her to jump -- or her dead husband's, same difference in this case.

Except that argument is weaker than wet toilet paper. If this were a debate, I'd lose. The main problem here (for me) is the word limit. Which is why I keep challenging myself to do it.

Is it possible to do beginning, middle, end in a sub-1,000 word story? Of course. Have I done it here. No. I don't think so. Fortunately, in writing more than any other area of life, as long as you can still breathe, you can have a do-over. Or, at least, a try-again.

So that's what I'm going to do. Try again. Next blogfest is my own, February 17th. (Here's where I try to talk the writerly types into joining me, as well as apologize for the abundance of parenthetical asides.) I will do my utmost to put together an actual story this time. You know, with a plot and stuff. And if I fail...hey, do-over.

Tessa's Birthday Blogfest

2011-01-21T05:00:00.008-05:00

Hello, all. Today's post is my entry into Tessa Conte's Birthday Bash blogfest. (Happy Birthday, Tessa!) The challenge was to write a story or scene, 500-1000 words in length, mentioning either birthdays, candles, cake, or presents.

I have to admit, I had trouble with this one. I don't know what the problem was, but I couldn't come up with a single thing. Until I came up with this. So, without further ado, here's my entry to Tessa's Birthday Bash blogfest:

Pillow

She stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. Only thirteen stairs to the ground floor -- how many times had she counted them? -- but the floor was impossibly far away. A voluminous down pillow hung from the fingers of her right hand as she gauged the distance. A hint of a smile on her lips, she grasped the pillow in both hands. She jumped, bounding over the rail in a single, exhilarating leap, and floated toward the floor. Far as it was, she took forever to reach it. She drifted ever downward, her nightgown fluttering, her hair billowing around her like a cloud. As the exhilaration faded, peace permeated her. She felt only the faint breeze created by her passing and a deep, penetrating stillness. At last, at long last, she neared the floor. Her peace of mind persisted, secure in the knowledge that the pillow would cushion her fall. She opened her eyes just as the pillow touched the floor.

And was back at the top of the stairs.

April rubbed her eyes and stretched, forcing the blood back into her sleeping legs. Forty-seven years and the dream remained the same. Despite the tranquility of it, she never felt rested when she woke. It was too vivid, too persistent. Regardless, she rose when the alarm clock roused her. People were relying on her, today especially.

Today, the occasion of Mr. Edgar Marston's fiftieth birthday required the frosting and decorating of the two hundred and fifty cupcakes she'd baked yesterday. Great bowls of orange-ginger chiffon and macadamia-viognier cream awaited her attentions.

Showered and dressed, she followed the aroma of coffee to the small, brightly lit kitchen. On her way through the hallway, she collected a kiss with her fingers and placed it on Jeremy's photo. He waited for her in the kitchen next to the coffee pot, as he always did.

How was her morning, he wanted to know. All right, she told him. Just tired from a dream. He understood. She'd always had the dream.

She took grapefruit marmalade with her toast this morning. No lemon? Jeremy wanted to know. She reminded him that lemon wasn't her favorite, it was his. Oh yes, he said. I remember now.

Her breakfast finished, she shuffled out to the garage cum commercial kitchen. She was too young to shuffle; the calendar told her so. Still, that's what came of a life spent bent over steel tables holding pastry bags.

Delicate blossoms crafted in sugar, their pistils and stamens poking from the centers like a fringe of orange and yellow lashes, sat lined up on their trays. Cupcakes in droves sat likewise, and she prepared the room for the work she'd need to do. Within fifteen minutes, April stood before an assembly line of cakes, creams, and sugar. Two hundred and fifty.

A big order today, Jeremy remarked. April nodded. They hadn't had that many people at their wedding, much less any birthday she could remember. It would take a while, but she was used to this now. She didn't even turn on the radio anymore. Jeremy sat in the corner and sang for her; his gentle voice a sigh on the wind. It soothed her.

Her hands were steady and sure, if a touched gnarled, and she was through with the order in good time. She loaded the cupcakes into their boxes and the boxes into her van. As she gathered her keys for the delivery, Jeremy stopped her.

You'll be joining me tonight, he told her. Did you know?

No, she hadn't known that, she said. We'll talk about it later.

Tonight, he said, and retreated into the house.

She drove the cupcakes to the hotel. A birthday at a hotel -- she marvelled at the extravagance. She hummed as she set a towering display with cakes. It was Jeremy's song and it calmed her, though she could never get the melody right. It didn't matter. Jeremy would sing it for her tonight.

The store was on the right-hand side of the road, just a quarter mile before the bridge. She'd seen the display in the window on the way here, and she'd understood. She splurged a little, more than she would normally. It was a special occasion, and the cupcake job had paid well.

***
She stood at the top of the bridge. An enormous, overstuffed down pillow trailed from the fingers of her left hand. The river was impossibly far away. She felt the exhilaration of the jump before peace enveloped her. With her eyes closed, the breeze was only slightly stronger than she remembered. With her eyes closed, she could be floating. A stubborn part of her was mildly surprised when she didn't appear back on the bridge, but then her body numbed to the cold water and she let the pillow drift away and, in the darkness, Jeremy sang for her.

So, that was it. Hope you enjoyed it! The links to the other blogfest entries can be found herehttp://tessasblurb.blogspot.com/2010/12/birthday-bash.html . Have a wonderful weekend, all. See you Tuesday.