Big life changes, none of them mine

Two of my friends are in the middle of major life events today. One friend is in labor with her first baby right now-- a particularly blessed event since she tried for two years and had been given a normal infertile diagnosis before finally getting pregnant, and Molly is buying a house. I've never been in labor but I have gone through the home buying process, and I imagine they are just about equally painful. All this joy for my friends is making it hard to sit at my desk and work when what I really want to do is run outside and dance, which given the way I dance would help spread the joy of the day as anyone happening buy would certainly find cause to laugh.

My Husband's Zucchini

No really—I mean the vegetable.
Michael and I have a system when it comes to meal preparation: I plan our weekly menu and make the grocery list. We go to the grocery store together and both do the shopping. One or the other of us (usually Michael) does the cooking and we do the cleaning up together. It's a system necessitated by my blindness, but we like the extra time spent together, so it works for us. Friday evening however, we hit a SNAFU in the system.
We had both had horrific weeks at our respective jobs and so decided to go out to the movies to take our minds off work. We saw Becoming Jane, which is an incredibly beautiful and brilliant movie that I highly recommend even if you aren't a true Austen fan. But for those, like Michael and me, who really love Austen, you're in for a real treat, as scenes from Austen's novels are woven expertly through the plot of Becoming Jane. Anyway, you should go see it, but I digress. Movie times never seem to be when I want them, and Becoming Jane was on at 6:50 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., when what I really wanted was a good 7:30 show. We decided on the earlier showing since I'd likely be asleep by 9:30, and since Friday evening traffic is always a bitch here I decided that since I was home a little early, I'd make dinner. Dinner was veggie wraps. Seriously, there is very little room for screw ups with veggie wraps. It's simply red onion, spinach, mushrooms, black olives, and cucumber wrapped in a tortilla, and we make a spread of cream cheese and Italian dressing. Sounds like the easiest thing in the world, doesn't it? And it is, when you have the right ingredients. The right ingredients being a cucumber, which—though admittedly similar—is a very different vegetable from a zucchini.
I thought the cucumber felt strange, but as I was in a hurry, and it was the only thing that even remotely felt like a cucumber in the vegetable crisper, I didn't ponder the matter over much. I love the smell of cucumbers, so once I pealed it and cut it in half, I took a big whiff. Nothing. No nice fresh clean cucumbery smell. No smell at all. Hmmmm. That's odd. So I again check the vegetable crisper. Nope, that has to be the cucumber. So I chop it up becoming ever more convinced that this is not a cucumber. Ahhh the joys of blindness, where all of life is a surprise. So finally I taste of the darn thing. Mystery solved. The non-cucumber like vegetable is absolutely not a cucumber and is most certainly a zucchini. I stood in the kitchen for a while trying to figure out if Michael was just fucking with me or if my husband in fact does not know the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini. So when he got home, I said, "Would you mind taking a look in that bowl and tell me what that looks like to you?""
"hmmmm."
"Does that look like a cucumber to you?"
Long pause. "It could be a cucumber."
"Uh-huh." So we go about finishing up dinner, minus the bowl of what could be a cucumber. Finally, I said, "You know that's a zucchini, don't you?"
Silence.
"You just aren't going to admit it's a zucchini because then you'll have to explain how you managed to confuse a cucumber with a zucchini, right?"
"Pretty much."
So we had a good laugh about it (I laughed more than Michael) and it sort of took the tension off the rough week. However, if you plan on making the above recipe for veggie wraps, I do not recommend zucchini as a substitute for cucumber.

Productivity Breeds Productivity

I have been absolutely swamped with work for my day job, the J.O.B. I knew it was coming-- this is the busy time of year where I work. I have been dreading these few weeks since early July, but I find there is a curious phenomenon at work here. The busier I am in one area of life, the more I get done in the other areas as well. This completely defies logic, but it seems to be true. When I am swamped at work, I find that I make the most of the limited time I have for my writing and for home stuff, and more gets done in all areas. Conversely, when I set aside an entire day for writing, my subconscious seems to say, "Well, since we've got the whole day, why not go ahead and check our favorite blogs. Oh, and let's do some knitting. And how about we spend just an hour or so reading." Next thing I know, it's 5 p.m., and the only writing I got done was a frantic paragraph-- guilt inspired-- begun upon realizing it was 4:50. What up with that?
One of the things that most concerned me about having a baby was that I might not have the time to write. Getting published has been a dream of mine for so long, I feared it being backburnered for anything, even for a baby. But now, I feel sure I'll be okay. I'll learn to use my time more efficiently, and make those fifteen minutes of free time really count.
I'm researching agents now. I think the process of getting published is as much about endurance and perseverance as anything. If you are talented and dedicated, you can write a book. and if you're determined enough (or crazy enough) to jump through the hoops that lead to publication, you can get your book on the bookstore shelves.
What I wouldn't give for a writing partner or a critique group right now, but there really isn't one to be found where I live.

Words

I like words. I am a writer. Playing with words is both my job and my passion. I like to turn words around in my mouth, experiencing the taste and feel of them the way other people do with good wine or chocolate. Writers are sometimes called wordsmiths, and I very much like that term, because wordsmithing is a good way to describe what we writers do. Words are our raw materials. We take the best ones, the strongest ones, the right ones, and we put them together with other words, and we forge sentences, paragraphs, entire books, and-- if we're good enough at it-- careers. On a day when the writing isn't going well, my mantra is "Keep putting one word in front of the other," and that gets me through the rough patches.
Despite this, I do have some words that I seriously hate, words that act on me like fingernails on a chalkboard. And they aren't the words you might imagine. I have a potty mouth of epic proportions. Hey, if you're good at a thing, right? I think one of the reasons swear words are so taboo (if you believe that they still are) is because they are very powerful words, among the most powerful in the English language. Or maybe any language for that matter, but I don't know how to cuss in, say, Mandarin Chinese-- but how cool would that be if I could! So anyway, here are some of the words that I really hate:
Moneys. Is $2 money and $3 moneys? Where does "money" end and "moneys" begin?
signage. I can't think of a grammatical situation where just plain "signs" wouldn't suffice. Signage is possibly the most pretentious of words.
Edgy. I don't really know why I dislike this one so much. Actually, I like the sound of it. Maybe it's the overdone nature of the word that I'm rebelling against, and the subjective nature of it. Maybe one person's edgy is another person's bid for attention. I mean really, what does this word mean?
I have other words that I simply don't use or will wrinkle my nose up at, but these three in particular produce a disproportionately violent reaction. What about you? any words that get under your skin? What about words you really like and have to exercise great restraint to keep from overusing?

My muse, the little bitch,

has extremely bad timing. I have been doggedly working on my fantasy romance exclusively for some time now. Let me just say that I am a distraction junkie. But for the past six months at least, I have fought my junkie urges and focused my attention almost laser-like on finishing this book. And then it was done. And while I was still on the wagon, I jumped write into writing a query letter and a synopsis. I am such a good girl. Sure, I was tempted. Other characters and plots flitted at the edge of consciousness or broke down the door of my defenses from time to time, but for the most part, I kept them at bay, having learned already the hard way that any detour makes it way, way more difficult to get yourself back on track. I was going to see this one book through before I ran off chasing the shiny new story.
And then yesterday, it all fell apart. Apparently my muse-- in the manner of an all out, PMS, pay attention to me damn it, hissy fit, set before me something that I could not resist. I am an addict, you see, and my muse knows this. She knows I am a whore for following links to new music or movie trailers. I don't even really like movies, and I don't buy much music, but dangle a link to a Youtube live performance in front of me and baby, will I dance.
I already knew that my next project would be to revisit that failed mystery novel, my learning book, because it had well-developed, compelling characters and an interesting setting that was a character all its own. I knew that if I combined those elements with a different plot, I'd have something that could sell and that I would enjoy writing. I already new that my heroine was going to get a complete makeover— new name, new job, new past-- but all I know about her so far is that she's going to be returning home to Kentucky after a failed attempt to make it big in Nashville. All these threads, I would weave together after-- and only after-- I had queried agents and editors and was on my way to getting a contract for my book—the one that I already finished! This was the right way, the logical way.
But when I came across this link, a cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" by Allison Crowe, logic went flying out the window as though born on the wings of an acid trip. the pieces of this new story started to fit together and a theme emerged, and theme is usually the very last thing to come to me. I can't explain how it happened, but the story is clear to me now and is demanding my attention. I know other writers say they create playlists to accompany each of their works in progress, to help them get back to that mental place where their story lives and to get into the minds of their characters, but for me it just seemed like a procrastination device and a time leach, but obviously, there is something more to it.
Inspiration is a funny thing. Trying to describe it is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. It's an "Ah-hah!" moment that's more about feeling than explaining. It shifts and drifts like potsmoke.
So here I am, stoned, in the middle of the road, watching the ass end of that wagon get smaller and smaller as I bask in this new story glow.
NOTE: Blogger hates me today, so if the link doesn't work and you want to visit the clip that sent me over the edge, the url is
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIMOdVXAPJ0
yes, I am a pusher now.

Blushing

I have just finished writing a novel. I think I'll write that sentence again because it just felt so darned good. I have just finished writing a novel.
I want to scream it to the world, to tell everyone just how very much I rock. Yet I say nothing. Why? Because when I tell people that I have just finished writing a novel, I will have to answer the inevitable next question-- what's it about? I could tap dance around the fact that what I have written is a romance, but doing so would feel like a cop out because ... well, it is a cop out. I should be blushing with pride at my achievement. Instead I am blushing with embarrassment. And it isn't that I'm not proud of what I've written-- I'm hugely, amazingly, extraordinarily proud of it. It is one hell of a book and when I reread it I can hardly believe that it came from me-- from my imagination, from my mind, from my heart, from my hands. It was a labor of love, and let me just say again-- I am extremely proud of it. But I am worried about how people will react when I tell them I have written a romance novel, and this worrying about what people think business is kind of new territory for me.
When I first started writing fiction, I wanted to write a mystery, something along the order of the Stephanie Plum books by Janet Evanovich. I finished (for the most part) that book and it will never see the light of day. That was my learning book, and what I learned was: A. I'm not so good when it comes to plotting-- sort of a deal breaker for writing a mystery, and B. What I really enjoyed was writing the interaction between the two main characters. In short, I learned that what I liked to write is romance. I like the emotional conflict, the sexual tension, the idea that the reader is in on the secret-- that these two characters are destined to be together in spite of themselves and the world that I created for them.
But in my world, the real world where I have a job in public relations and where I have a reputation as a no nonsense whip cracker, I admit that I am reluctant to share the true nature of what I write. I have friends here, good friends, and they know I'm writing a book, but they don't know what it's about. They still think I'm writing a mystery, and I have said nothing to make them think otherwise.
I am not ashamed of what I write. I am however ashamed of my reluctance to own up to it. I know what a lot of people say about romances. I know because before I started reading and writing it, I said the same things. Well, maybe I didn't say them, but I thought them. Romance is fluffy bunny women's stuff. Why would women want to read about sex. Romances are nothing more than escapism.
Let me start with the fluffy bunny thing. We live in a time when women are awfully hard on other women and where "professionalism" is code for-- Act like a man. I guess the thinking is that to be successful, women have to distance themselves from anything soft or emotional. But here's the thing: Women are emotional. I don't mean dissolve into hysterics at the slightest provocation emotional, I mean that we have emotional responses to situations that are on the whole more powerful than our male counterparts, which is not in any way meant to imply that men aren't emotional or have no feelings. Not at all. I believe the science of brain chemistry will back me up on this, and if I wasn't so lazy I'd research it. suffice it to say, I think I read an article once that supported my theory. Probably it was somebody else's theory first though. I'm almost certain it was. And given how little we actually know about the brain, I think you're safe in just trusting that I'm correct. So let's go with that and move on.
Now the sex thing. Yes, there is sex in romance, sometimes a lot of it. But there is sex in everything. It's in movies, on TV, in music, not to mention pornography of all kinds-- hell, it's practically the god of our collective consciousness. In romances at least, the sex is more than just sex. It is almost always portrayed as part of a, if not loving relationship, than at least one based in respect that has the potential to grow into love. and in romances, sex has consequences, even if they are simply emotional consequences. Society has claimed sex for entertainment value, and I think it's an act of liberation for women to reclaim it as their own, and if they do so by reading and/or writing romances, then all the better.
escapism. Isn't all entertainment escapism? Isn't the highest compliment one can pay a book or movie, "I got so involved that I lost track of time or even where I was." That's powerful, and if my book can do that for somebody, then I will feel like the Queen of the freakin' universe. I get just as wrapped up in action adventure novels, or mysteries, or even the Harry Potter books, as I do in romances. Because that is what good books do. They pick you up, carry you off, and drop you down in another place and another time and make you never want to leave. Escapism? yes please
Women have been defending their choice to read and write romance ever since Jane Austen, and her arguments were far more eloquent and pithy than mine. Pick up a copy of Northanger Abby if you don't believe me. So if it was good enough for Austen, shouldn't it be good enough for me?

More on epilogues

I finished the epilogue! Well, the first draft of it anyway, which of course means that I've really finished nothing because there is lots of revising and editing to do, but at least I have something that resembles the final product completely written down. I thought finishing it would feel ... bigger somehow. Like the heavens would part and I'd hear angels singing the hallelujah chorus, but alas, no. Only silence. The whole thing was kind of anticlimactic, truth be told. Rather than smoking a cigarette or having a drink, I watered the plants and cooked dinner. Still, there is a certain sense of accomplishment. Right up until I shutdown the laptop knowing that a file named "Epilogue" rested snuggly inside, I remained a little unsure of whether I could do it, whether I could really put an end to something that I had given so much too for so long. Maybe the Hallelujah angels are waiting for me to get a publishing contract. I'm sure that's it.

The Perfect Storm

Yesterday got up to 150 degrees here in Kentucky. Well, almost. It's August, so the heat and humidity build throughout the day, getting slowly worse with each intake of muggy air, like slow torture. But it was all worth it around 7 o'clock last night. We heard something BOOM! outside, and Michael went to the door to look out because it sounded like something blew up. It had-- the heat. It had finally reached the boiling point and a wonderful storm blew in. It wasn't a scary, "turn on the radio for tornado warnings" kind of storm. It was just a nice summertime evening storm with wind and rain and enough cloud to ground lightening and loud thunder to be respectable. We listened to it while we ate chocolate fudge brownies that Michael made because I'm premenstrual and he loves me and values his life. He didn't toss them to me like raw meat through a lion's cage, but almost. Then the storm passed, the brownie was gone, and I fell asleep on the couch while Michael watched some boy movie on TV, which is pretty much my idea of a perfect evening.

The End ... maybe

With the end of the Harry Potter series, there is much talk of epilogues lately. as it happens, I am working on an epilogue of my own and am finding that it ain't so very easy. I have been writing on my fantasy romance for almost three (gulp) years now. I could say much about my creative process, but it can best be described as "slow." I'm cutting myself some slack though since I have had three brain operations during those almost three years. yes, possibly that is an excuse but really, can you think of a better one? So anyway, the book is finished (I'll wait while you cheer) except for the epilogue, which I thought I'd just crank out in a day or two. I'm slow, but hopeful, you see. But now it's been almost three weeks and still no epilogue, and I know exactly what the problem is. Oh yes, I know.
Once I get this book well and truly done, epilogue and all, then I have to begin the business of writing, and it really is a business. I have to write a summary, a synopsis, query agents, query more agents, and do countless other things that I probably don't even yet know that I have to do. I am not good with businessy stuff. Evaluating my day job's benefits package makes me twitch. Assessing retirement options gives me a rash. Just say "insurance form" to me and I start to hyperventilate. No, I am not good with business kinds of stuff, but if I ever want to be a full-time, published author-- and that is very much what I want-- then I'm just going to have to buck up and learn to deal with this stuff. The point is that it is just so much easier and so much less scary to keep rewriting this darned epilogue!