New Bloggie

Booger here has been giving me some fits of late, and I've been covetting Pete's lovely looking blog over on Wordpress, so that's where I am now: mymidnightmuse.wordpress.com

I'll be posting new blog posts there from now on, and as soon as I have the time (ie: After The Great Tea Debacle) I'll move all this stuff there, including linkies and the like.

And y'all be in for a writerly treat in December. It's a Secret! Well, not really, but you have to wait anyway.

I'm going shopping!

Tomorrow, my sister is taking me PEN shopping! Yes, I'm excited about it. I haven't written with a pen in so long, and that's something I'm changing, practicing and relearning the proper way to compose with pen and paper.

I'm pathetically happy about that.

I'm also pathetically happy about what The Great Tea Debacle has done for me. I always considered myself a disciplined writer, one who could start, excute and finish full-length novels. I've written 12, after all, and In An Ageless Sky is #13. But the one thing I didn't do before this contest sprang forth (that'll teach me to challenge Pete after hearing how he and Lori challenged each other in the past), was write DAILY without fail.

Most of us have some form of "life" and often that gets in the way of a lot of things. Work, life, hobbies, the need for food and sleeping - these can all take up space that make you go ahead and take a "day off" from writing now and again. And I was one of those writers who could talk herself into not writing "just today" to take a break. Then "today" would turn in to "okay, I'll pick it back up next Monday". One day off writing turns into another, then the next one is even easier. Only that don't get no novel done!

Sure, it does eventually, as my 12 novels will attest. But it's slower, like a novel and a half a year (when you add in edits and polishing) and that's no career in writing!

So when I realized that, during this Tea Debacle, I'd been writing EVERY. DAY. I was made quite happy. I'm even writing during times I'd normally sit on the couch and stare at the TV for no good reason.

Pathetic? Okay, I don't mind that label. I'm a happy pathetic!

And here's something even more pathetic:


Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.

Cracked it open, cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now,
Just now I cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now.

It was leaky, it was leaky,
It was leaky just now,
Just now I found it leaky,
It was leaky just now.

Used it anyway, used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now,
Just now I used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now.

Stained my fingers, stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now,
Just now I stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now.

Tried to blot it, tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now,
Just now I tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now.

Made it messy, made it messy,
Made it messy just now,
Just now I made it messy,
Made it messy just now.

Tried white-out, tried white-out,
Tried white-out just now,
Just now I tried some white-out,
Tried white-out just now.

I can't read it, I can't read it,
I can't read it just now,
Just now I cannot read it,
I can't read it just now.

Tore the paper, tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now,
Just now I tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now.

Word count suffered, word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now,
Just now my word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now.

Tried a pencil, tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now,
Just now I tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now.

Lead keeps breaking, lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking, just now,
Just now my lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking just now.

Used a curse word, used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now,
Just now it I used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now.

Must keep writing, must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now,
Just now I must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now.

Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.

Prudence, my love;

'tis midway through my confinment at Castle Debacle, and already I can smell the tea brewing! Rumors grow of the ship bringing us odd writing instruments and parchment on which to compose, and I can no longer ignore such talk.

Prudence, I know thou shalt think me daft and bereft of my senses, but I assure you 'tis true. As I began to drift into that blissful state of sleep, 'round about the midnight hour, in the distance I could hear the most lyrical singing. The voices of far-distant sailors wafted to me upon the night's clear air, and I can only assume these same voices were onboard that rumored ship, the SS Penman.

But lo, Prudence, the fog has been so thick of late! I fear a shipwreck.

Pray with me, dearest Prudence. Pray for the safety of these sailors, and their most precious of cargo.

And let us sing their shanty, for I have written down the words I heard upon the night, with the hopes that putting them to paper will solidify their reality, and release me from their haunting grasp.

Sing with me, dearest Prudence!

SING!

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Go here

And Listen let the music take over. Let it bring forth the frenzied conductor inside your soul. Put down your pens, pencils and keyboards - shut off your WIPs and stop writing.

BE the music.

FEEL the music.

Fall in LOVE with the music.

Then buy it.

That is all.




(oh, and mail me your tea)

My Dearest Prudence

Day 12 and the work continues here in Castle Debacle. This weekend past brought a change to our routine. Whilst my fellow inmates were slaving away, padding their word counts and performing their daily chores, I was allowed out into the Courtyard.

There was a festival there, but I was put to work rather than feasting, and thusly no further words were attained. But lo, my efforts of the week past were fruitful, and my words they did multiply.

And now I am back inside the Castle walls, once again slave to the writing.

I think of you daily, dearest Prudence, and write with continued fervor so that I may see you again soon. Each evening, I am lulled to sleep by the sounds of the distant foghorn as it warns passing ships away from the dangers of the cliffs. Each morn, I awaken to the thick fog rising up from the ocean below.

There is talk of a ship, a great ship coming to us from the northland bringing us paper and pens with which to write. Many find this a foolish rumor. A trick, to confuse and befuddle us away from our keyboards. But I’ve heard talk, whispers in the night, that the ship is real and should arrive within the month.

‘Tis foolish talk indeed, my dear Prudence, but such that I cannot fully ignore.

Still, even as I sit at the keyboard, striving toward the tea, the words vex me. Oh how they vex me so! I see them in the night, when my eyes have closed for slumber. They taunt me during the waking hours, when meals or daily chores keep me from setting them down.

But take heart, my dear, for the words are serving me. Slowly, with great determination, they are serving me well.

Soon – very soon my Prudence – we shall drink tea together again.

Dear Prudence

Day 9 of my captivitea.

My cell mates continue to taunt me with bizarre word counts and tales of all-night writing sessions. Some of them have been allowed to dine lavishly on massive manuscripts and bloated numbers, while the other inmates and I are fed difficult work schedules and teething babies.

Although I’ve made my own progress in spurts and stammers, I nevertheless must write something daily in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

And Tea.

In an attempt to disgust them, I continually post comments and blog almost daily. The other day, I severed my connection with AW, ruining their plans to distract me. I had hoped this would strike terror in their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, I fear it will have no impact on their word count reports.

Bastards!

Thinking I was gaining ground, I checked my word count. With glee I noticed it swelling, growing in size and complexity. Only then did I realize my opponents were also still writing, still adding words and bloating their manuscripts.

And still I write.

The other inmates and I believe the only way out is to write, to add words to our own manuscripts and form a bridge to the outside world. They say there is no escape. They say there is no Tea. Only time will tell.

I cannot give up hope. I cannot let them win this battle of wits and wills!

Take heart, Prudence, for I shall prevail. The gallows are not yet built (they say it’ll take another 21 days or so, since they’re using elmer’s glue instead of decking screws)

I will continue to write, Prudence. I will continue to fight.

And I’ll Tea them all in Hell !

My Penmanship is a Wreck!

A year and a half ago I had elbow surgery, where they snipped off the tendon at my elbow, then moved it to another spot and reattached it. Before that, my handwriting was really bad. In fact, all my life my penmanship was atrocious, much to the frustration of many a teacher.

My hand would cramp up, it could take me most of the night to crank out a report for school and make sure it was legible. And when I’d write fiction, it was a long, slow process.

Since the surgery, nothing has changed as far as my handwriting goes. I still cramp up, the whole hand and forearm hurt after just a few minutes, and I really can’t use a pen for more than signing my name or filling out a check.

And that’s where I’m lying.

I can. If I practice, relearn how to write and hold a pen, and give myself permission to suck at it for a few months.

My surgeon and my physical therapist said I could use a pen, that the tendon was just fine, and nothing I did could ruin their hard work. What I had to do was change the way I held a pen, and practice.

I’ve come to realize, and admit, that I’ve been using excuses, like “It hurts to hold a pen for more than a few minutes.” And “My handwriting is terrible, I’d never be able to read what I wrote to transcribe it.” Along with “My thoughts come out too fast, my fingers need a keyboard to keep up.”

Bullshit.

Today I found this site, with excellent advice on retraining your handwriting. Interestingly, they mention the wrong way to write is to use just your HAND, while the proper way to write is to use your hand, arm and shoulder. What makes that interesting is that Pete also mentioned when he writes, he seems to use his arm and shoulder when he does. I’d never heard of that before.

There’s also an interesting aspect for the Writer. When you write by hand, as a Writer, you’re forced to use completely different writerly “muscles”. You cannot write as fast as you can think, but that’s the point.

You also cannot hit the backspace button, or use spell check. That is also the point.

I find when I’m writing on the computer, sentences come flowing out of me in stammers. I’ll know what I want to say for about a paragraph, but then I have to pause and consider the wording for the next one. Then another spurt, followed by a pause. Typically after a page or three, I stop and read over what I wrote, contemplate it, then make some changes.

Writing by hand slows you down to the point of really thinking about your words, your pacing, your next move. You’re more apt to try out a sentence in your head three or four ways before putting it down. On the computer, I’m more prone to spewing it out, then hitting the backspace, trying it another way, deleting, trying it again.

I think writing by hand forces the writer to think more. To consider.

I’m not suggesting those of us who type it out aren’t thinking, or considering. And I’m not going to say we’re typing out crap. No, certainly not. I’m typing this, and it isn’t crap (I heard that!)

But I have a dream – and that’s to write by hand again. Not every novel, not every time. I do, however, need to reclaim that ability. I need that option, for those times when I’m without the computer, or my eyes are so sick of seeing a screen, and watching a cursor blink.

This weekend I’ll be away from the computer, so I’m going to bring a notebook with me and try working on the penmanship, adding to my Tea Debacle novel. And I’m going to keep practicing, working on the techniques on that web site. I’m going to find a good pen, and reteach myself how to write.

And I’m going to hand write my next novel.

And I’m going to win, because I am a leaf on the wi – hmm, maybe I need a new quote.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's -

I'm someone who does not believe in Writer's Block. It's a term people use to suggest they're "locked up" and can't continue writing until some magical outside force, or muse, comes along and smacks them upside the head with a silly, sparkling wand.

Usually all that happens if you sit around and wait for that wand is moss grows on your ass and you eventually get something in your eye.

I do, however, believe in:

Writer's Procrastination. A condition wherein the Writer feels fussy and fidgety like a 3-month old with gas, and manages to find a plethora of "more important things" to get done, all while saying "I really have to get some writing done."

Writer's Depression. The feeling that everything one writes is crap, while everyone around them acquires agents and six-figure advances. This is most often brought on by a Form Rejection, opened and read the same day the Writer learns OJ's book Damn Straight, I Did It is sitting on the NY Times Bestsellers list.

Writer's Panic. The sudden realization that one's plot has just taken a left turn when it was designed to angle right and upward. This often leaves the Writer with a sense of confusion, disorientation and a little nausea until the plot once again hits pavement and makes forward motion.

Writer's Wall. Often no more than a simple attack of hormones or brief wave of emotional self-doubt that causes the Writer to question the plot, character development, logic and flow of the story. Typically this causes a solid, well thought out plot to suddenly and inexplicably make little to no sense.

The cure for all of these ailments is basically the same: Write. Keep writing. Don't stop writing. Plough through the bad times, plough through the fears and doubts, plough right on through that depression like a little old lady who has no business driving a car, who's just mistaken the brake for the accelerator and sent her car careening through an open-air market, flinging peaches and squashing watermelon like there was no tomorrow.

Eventually, maybe even that same day, you'll come out the other side with a progressing novel and a little pear pulp on the wipers.

But there is one thing . . . One roadblock that can stop even the strongest Writers in their tracks. It comes out of nowhere, can sneak up and take you completely by surprise, and interferes with your writing with a force of will too stalwart to overcome.

It is - -




Writer's Cat.




If you're ever stricken with Writer's Cat, there's really no hope for you. It's best to remain calm, and take this opportunity to read over the parts of your novel that you've managed to write and do a little internal editing. Take this opportunity to reflect and review. See if that paragraph came out the way you'd planned, make sure you remembered to include those character thoughts you wanted to use.

And wait for the mailman to bring you the Tea.

The Writer's Tea

Sitting in the teahouse, I take a back table to watch the world go by. When I came in, I noticed a guy at the front, sitting with his back against the wall where he can see the world outside as well as the patrons in the teahouse.

I order a pot of Hojicha and take my notebook and pen to the corner table, opposite the fish tank. From here, I can see everyone inside, and hear them at the counter as they place their orders. A lady just stormed out, heading for the Starbucks across the street because you can't get tea to-go here.

Tea isn't a drink, it's an experience, the clerk explained. She wasn't having any of that, with a cell phone permanently attached to her left ear, long fingernails that tapped the counter rudely because Jimmy was plating up some noodles and he works the teahouse alone.

Just as well. That kind of energy is empty, and her cell phone would have drawn angry looks from all of us. Including that guy up front. I've figure him out - he's one of us.

A Writer.

He's got a notebook, and he occasionally taps his lip with his pen, but he hasn't written anything yet. Neither have I, but I just sat down. My tea leaves are still steeping, I just checked the pot and they're still swelling up with the heat of the water, slowly releasing their goodness into the little white porcelain pot.

I've had a bad day, and the page is empty.

The story is there, I can see it. Every time I close my eyes, it's right there, playing out scene by scene. The dialogue is fantastic. I love hearing it, listening to my characters speak it out to each other. But the empty page has me snow-blind. The words are there, dancing around in the forest in the back corner of my brain, like errant fairies, refusing to be photographed.

Little shits.

I check the pot again and the water is finally darkened. With the strainer over the top of my cup, I pour out the tea and the scent of it floods my nose. Hojicha is fairy dust in thick, long strips of green leaves. It's earthy.

Primal.

It's the very thing those little fairies can't resist.

I bring the cup to my mouth and inhale the steam through my nose, eyes closed, willing the fairies to sense it.

I hate them, and they know it. I don’t write fantasy, and that's pissing them off. But they can't resist the tea. I add a touch of sugar, just enough to tease out the flavor. When I take a drink, I can smell it and taste it at the same time.

They've caught wind of the tea now. The little creeps finally recognized what I'm drinking and they want some. They want it bad, those errant little fairies. One of them just popped its head around a tree and I saw it.

Now they have no choice. They're flying out of the forest and running down my pen, heading for the tea. I click the ball point and write: All your Tea shall be mine.

I feel like A Writer today!

That might sound strange, but I know some people will understand what I mean. Right now, I'm penning In An Ageless Sky - my Great Tea Debacle competition novel. In this story I'm touching on the time travel issues I mentioned further down this blog, like, last month or something.

That's not to say this is a time-travel story by any means, but the act of traveling through time and "changing" past events to alter future ones does come into play. I have this amazing clarity of mind about the whole issue, too, for the first time in my life I UNDERSTAND how time travel could (although of course it doesn't) function and exactly how (although it doesn't) change would affect everyone involved.

I'm so friggin' psyched about it all. Like that moment you're reading Einstein's Theory of Relativity and suddenly, brilliantly, it all makes sense.

Based on that revelation, and this theory of mine, I've had yet another - completely independent yet equally thrilling - novel idea come into mind. I'll be writing that one next, after this novel is done.

And I've purchased a notebook. The spiral kind, with 200 pages in it. I'm going to handwrite my next novel, re-teach my right hand how to hold a pen and develop the stamina to do so.

I can't even begin to tell you how happy that thought makes me. It recalls the days of my youth, sitting on the bed late at night, with a notebook and pen, frantically (because the ideas were flowing so freely from my young brain) trying to get each sentence written before the next one could stammer out. Stopping only when I was dozing on the page, or my hand was cramped beyond function.

My face would be so close to the notebook, I could smell the ink and would fall asleep with that scent creeping into my nostrils. I loved the feel of paper, like the old books with the cracked spines - how they smelled !

I feel giddy, like a school girl, with thoughts of this novel and the next - - the pure joy of falling so completely into these worlds that they spring to life around me, as real as the one I'm sitting in right now.

I feel like A Writer.

Oh, um . . .yeah . . . You'll all fail. Give up now, yada yada.

Mail me your tea.

Stop! Hey, What's That Sound?

When's the last time you sat down and listened to music, just for music's sake? I mean, we all listen to music, right? But we have it on while we're doing other things.

I listen to music while driving, or working around the house. I have music on while I write, usually, and I love to plug in the ol' MP3 player headphones when I'm out in the garage drilling rocks or outside mowing the lawn or raking leaves.

And, since I have tympania and silence isn't ever silent for me, I often have a CD of chanting Benedictine monks on while I fall asleep. See, my lovely little white noise generator - the only one I've ever loved - finally died one day and they don't make it anymore. So I found the chanting monks to be the perfect tone and register to 'distract' me from the static, so I can fall asleep.

But I can't really remember the last time I sat down, with the purpose of simply listening to music.

The opera doesn't count, because I was watching actors on the stage. And the ballet doesn't count for the same reasons. I'm talking more like going to the symphony, where all you did was sit and listen to the music, letting it take you away completely.

I even have the radio on right now, behind me, at work, as background noise. But I tune it out more often than not - I just need noise that comes from outside my own ears.

Sometimes I feel like that's such a disservice to the music. That we use it as supplemental noise, or background filler. But perhaps that's what music is for, to fill those little spaces, like jello.

Try this, maybe this weekend or tomorrow. Put on some music - doesn't have to be classical, it can be Rob Zombie for all I care - just put it on, sit down, and do nothing else.

Just. Listen.

Hear every word, feel every beat, follow every change in pace and rhythm.

ENJOY the music for the music's sake. Go ahead, give that a try. Put on, heck, go for 5 CDs. You've got time. Plenty of time. It won't interfere with your writing. It's only Day One.

You. Have. Time.

There's no need to write yourself silly in the first day.

There's always room for jello.

It's The Great Tea Debacle, Charlie Brown!

It's now Tea Minus - well, whatever time is left between now and midnight, when The Great Tea Debacle begins.

Time to get those notes in order. Time to program the coffee pot, fill the tea kettle, set that chocolate up in neat little rows. And you'd best go potty now, 'cause once this bus gets moving, we're not gonna stop for anyone. (sorry, I was channeling my dad and our family vacations there for a minute)

How do you feel? Any aches or pains? Can you sit at the computer for long hours? Can you hold that pen for 4 weeks non-stop? Is your spouse willing to put up with this? Who's gonna walk the dog?

Did you pick the wrong month to quit crack?

What's your clearance, Clarence?

Okay, deep breath. Almost there. Wait for it.

Wait for it . . . !

Strategy, I has it.

So apparently several of my fellow Tea Debaclers have fallen ill. They've got the "crud", as it were, and here we are - 3 days from Start.

I - the one who never gets sick - thought ahead. I figured "whilst I never do fall ill, it would be inconvenient of me to catch the sniffles at the beginning of November." So I decided to go ahead and have my virus last week.

I had the sore throat wherein the only thing I could eat was soy ice cream and Kahlua. I had the sniffles so bad I was forced to sleep with some Kleenex shoved up my nostrils. And yes, my knees ached with that almost-fever feeling that gives you a glimpse of what life with be like when you're 90 and arthritic.

But that was last week. As I said, I thought it prudent to get sick and get it over with, so that when The Great Tea Debacle began, I'd be healthy and ready to go!

That's called Planning, people!

That's a Strategy!

That, shall win me Tea.

I can haz Icon?

Okay, I was over at the Nano site poking around looking for some contact info - and whilst stumbling about - realized they have those nifty-neato-keen participant icons people can put on their blogs and web sites and use in their siggy-lines on forums and such . . . And I thought "Hey, we need one, too!"

Actually, I thought "Crap, I'm bored!" and this was a useful 10 minutes.

So here, and I'll see if I can figure out how to put it on my bloggie.

The Solitary Tea Drinker

A discussion in the comments section of our Great Tea Debacle page of Official Announcements reminded me of how solitary writing can be, especially to those of us who might not have a black book filled with friends and acquaintances.

Many of us, not just writers, have our lives compartmentalized - in that, we have our Work Selves, our Home Selves, and probably one or two Hobby Selves and sometimes never the twain shall meet. We probably don't socialize much with our coworkers, aside from the usual office BBQ or Holiday Party. Maybe our hobbies involve us with other people, and that's great, but we're less likely to include those folks in our every day business.

More often than not - though there are exceptions - many of us keep our Writerly Selves secret from friends and family. I talk about writing with my one sister, naturally, but never mention a word of it to my mother, stepfather, other sister or nieces/nephew. None of my friends know, and not a single person I work with has a clue I'm a writer.

Writing itself - the development of ideas, plots, characters - is all done inside our own heads, and there's nothing more personal or private than our own thoughts. That's why, if you locked up a writer in a room with no pen, paper, pencil or typewriter, we could still happily entertain ourselves for years and years, working on our novels inside our own heads.

I've said before, that writing is an almost ethereal blending of two polar opposites. It's something very personal, that holds deep meaning to each of us - something that's done in a very private manner from inside our minds to quietly appear on paper, shown to precious few if any until completion - then it's offered to complete strangers in the hopes that masses of the general public will read it for generations to come.

It's true of all the arts, really, except people can usually tell you're a painter, or see you sculpting before it's done, or even hear you play that piano before you perform the concert.

Sometimes I think I'll explode if I can't share when an awesome plot idea suddenly fills my mind - especially when the solution to a situation I'd been struggling with bursts into my head with such clarity and genius, I'm dying to see it come out. But I don't. Mostly it's because something like that is too detailed and convoluted to share with someone without literally boring them to death with detail, and also my sister - who is my reader - doesn't like spoilers.

November is going to be a very solitary month.

It could be a very lonely 30 days.

You're going to be writing your little fingers off, desperate to beat Pete the Chest Thumper, Lori the Wise and Determined, and Kristine the Energizer Bunny.

What about your friends? Your family? With Thanksgiving coming up, aren't you going to want to spend time with them? You've got that big meal to plan, and Grandma is going to want to give you tips on baking those pies.

And do you remember where you put Aunt Edna's lace tablecloth?

Then there's Christmas. You realize, as of November 1st, it's only 54 shopping days away?

Writing can be such a solitary undertaking. No one's going to fault you if you find yourself staring wistfully at those holiday decorations in that box in the basement. If your spouse needs a cuddle - if little Jr. has a rough time at school - if the leaves are piling up in your yard, making you the scorn of the block . . .

There is no shame in mailing the Tea. History will remember you.

Incentive

As if winning gobs of Tea from a bunch of losers, and having the skeleton and muscle structure of a publishable novel to show for it, weren't enough, the Winner of The Great Tea Debacle will have this great and wonderful Award to display on his/her (read: my) web page and/or blog.

So roll up your sleeves, Oh Ye Great Tea Debacle Writers, and get those tea pots boiling !

Okay, then make some tea, and maybe put on a sweater - 'cause we've got a week left to go.

The Long, Dark, Tea-Time of the Soul

Douglas Adams. I miss him. That man was one of the greatest writers this planet has been graced by. It was his humor that spurred me onward to strive to write and become disgustingly famous myself, and while we're waiting for that to happen, we drink tea in his memory.

I would never presume to suggest, or even dream that I could write in the style of Mr. Adams - to do so, even if I thought it would get my middle toe in a door, would be foolish. They say that, as writers, we should be able to compare ourselves or our writing to another published author or his/her works. Designed to give a prospective agent some frame of reference - of comparison - and to show that prospective agent we, the writer, have done our homework and read everything printed since 700BC and know exactly who our target audience is.

Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. They really only expect you to be fluent in works from 658BC.

I wish I could be half as talented as Douglas Adams' left foot, but even if I were, or just thought I was, I'd be too timid to declare that to anyone. Though I did write a humor piece last year inspired by thoughts of the great writer, called: Mick Danger; Private Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat.

It's been set aside, in need of revision and edits, and a few thousand more words. I'm not entirely sure why I set it aside, but I do intend to pick it back up again. I think, when I took a good hard look at it, I had this odd sort of fear that THIS . . . This would be the novel that gets me an agent. This piece, this humorous Fantasy - of which I have never penned before - written in First Person - something I'd never even tried before - was going to be The One.

And I wasn't sure I wanted to be "known" for that. Did I want this humorous Fantasy to be my coming out, when all my other work is character driven Science Fiction? Did I really want to consider writing more just like it, and being known as a Fantasy writer?

Even now, while I have one of my best-loved pieces off - being read - I can't help thinking that Fantasy piece is going to be what breaks me out. Although it's a bit niche. It's about a writer who was murdered by his editor, who is then murdered herself.

All I have to do is dig it back out, edit the crap out of it, fluff it up a bit more, and pen a query. And I will.

I'm pretty sure I will.

But that still won't put me anywhere near a par with Douglas Adams.

In fact, sometimes just thinking about my favorite authors and their great achievements and works of amazing fiction humbles me into shame. Who am I to imagine I could join their ranks, and sit on bookshelves beside them?

These thoughts can be paralyzing at times, educational at others. In fact, I encourage you to sit back and consider the works of your favorite authors, or any of the greats, and ask yourself: Am I good enough to join them? Do I have what it takes to sit in a café next to Neil Gaiman and pass him the sugar? Would Ernest Hemmingway even let me pet one of his cats?

Humbling, isn't it? Makes you want to curl up on the couch with your wooby and eat chocolate. Then you'll flick on the TV and see they're running reruns of Firefly - written by another of writing's gods, who you couldn't even hold a Bic lighter to, which puts you into an even deeper funk only slightly alleviated by the amazing dialog and acting.

It's okay. We all feel that way at times. It's a bummer this is hitting you so close to November 1st, but you just can't dictate when these feelings of inadequacy will strike, leaving you sniffling into your wooby while the candy wrappers pile up.

In the immortal words of the late, great Douglas Adams, it's: "Almost but not quite entirely unlike tea."

Don't worry, or let it get to you. This, too, shall pass. You'll get over it, and soon - probably sometime early December, you'll forget all about that and once again believe you can write.

You can write just as well as anybody!

Then you'll launch off that couch, toss you wooby aside, pick up a pen - and write my address on that lovely box of tea.

And I'll leave you today with yet more words of wisdom from Mr. Adams himself: "Let's think the unthinkable, let's do the undoable, let's prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all."

Last Night

No, I don’t mean Saturday, I mean the Indie Canadian flick called Last Night. It’s pretty obscure, and several years old, and – like many Canadian films - it’s a bit dark and depressing, but compellingly written.

At the start of the film we’re made to understand the world is about to end, and that this is everyone’s Last Night. While the movie is about a handful of people and how they’re spending their last night on earth, we’re never told what’s causing this destruction. It’s clearly been known for a little while, since most of the city has been abandoned as people flee to other places – presumably wherever they want to spend their last days, or perhaps thousands of them thought they could find a safe place.

It’s clear that the entire world is ending, at midnight, and everyone’s aware – but what I love about the film is that we, the viewer, never understand why. It’s not important why, it’s only important to know that all life on Earth comes to an end, and this is everyone’s Last Night.

Different characters deal with it differently, of course. Many are gathering in a park to watch “it” happen, while others are huddled at home surrounded by family and friends. One guy is working on his quest to have sex in every possible manner before he dies, while another is desperately trying to get home to die beside her husband.

One man, the previously mentioned woman’s husband, has left work and is home waiting for his wife. He only stayed at work because he runs the power company, and they vowed to keep the lights on for everyone, up to their last moment. This man and his wife planned to have a special last dinner, and die in each other’s arms. He doesn’t realize his wife is having serious trouble getting home, so he’s there waiting – his wife’s story is more pivotal to the movie, but I found this man’s short entry most compelling.

You see, while he’s waiting, and the clock is nearing 11:00, there’s rioting outside. He opens his door to suddenly face a young man with a rifle. An argument ensues, and the young man blows him away.

Keep in mind the entire world is ending at midnight. Everyone is going to die. The planet Earth will Cease To Be, and this man has just been murdered.

He’s known midnight would be his end, along with everyone else, and now he’s been killed – senselessly. His final hour stolen from him. It struck me as such a waste, and such a horrible thing to happen. Like having a doctor tell you it’s cancer, and you have three weeks left, then you’re leaving the office to go tell your family and make final preparations, and you’re run over by a bus on the way to the car.

The film did end with the world ending – we never found out what it was, or why it happened, but the final scene is a flash of white light, then the credits roll. His wife, unable to reach him, tried to commit suicide with another man, but they ended up dying in an embrace. The sexual deviant died in climax, and the entire planet vanished.

Of that whole movie, the most tragic part for me was the man who was murdered in that last hour. It left me with such an empty feeling, such a waste of hope and life. Much the same way I’ll feel about my competitors when November ends.

You’ll all have struggled so mightily – penned so many words, downed so much caffeine, and lost so much sleep – and it will all be for naught. In that last hour, when you know the First Great Tea Debacle is about to end for all involved, when you have that bottle of celebratory wine ready to pop open at midnight . . . That’s when it will happen. You’ll check your word count and realize you’re going to fall short. It was all for nothing – the entire month of grueling, torturous work. Such a waste.

You’ll cry, you’ll rage in denial, and your spouse will find you curled in the fetal position, fingers raw, mumbling incoherently about plots, verbs and tea.

Wouldn’t you rather go out with dignity, grace and style? November is the start of the Holidays, when your attention should be focused on family, the coming Winter, and a winding down of those Summer-time ambitions.

November 30^th is your Last Night. Why don’t you put down that pen, set the computer aside, and bake some cookies. Spend that Last Night with your family, remembering the good times, and what life was all about. Write up your Will, and let your loved ones know what your final wishes are.

I shall raise a tea cup in your honor, and keep your memories alive.

I hab a toad

Two days ago, I started getting this dry, scratchy throat. "Not to worry," I says to myself. "I never get sick."

That's my mantra - I never get sick. And I don't, hardly ever at all. Each December I have to sell back sick leave because we can only carry over so much from one year to the next.

Whenever I do get the sniffles or a sore throat, I go to work to spread the joy. I figure if I'm gonna feel like crap, I might as well be at work. Now sure, if I have a fever I stay home. But like I said, I just don't get sick.

My constant state of denial serves me well.

So I'm sitting here on a Friday with a horribly sore throat and that otherwordly feeling you get from cold medicines, and I'm happy.

Why? You ask. Well, because it's October 19th. By the time November 1st hits, my throat will be fine, my snot will have run, and I'll be healthy and ready to take on The Great Tea Debacle with vim and vigor. Add to that the fact that it happens to be Fall, and that means grey skies, grey water, and solid rain - the perfect recipe for staying inside at the keyboard, plugging away at my novel.

That old Fall/Winter depression that hits so many this time of year -- when you realize the cheer and color of Summer is long gone, and you've nothing to look forward to now save for cold temps, rainy days, impending snow, Thanksgiving with the in-laws (and all that bickering, burned turkey, Grandma's harping and the baby puking up on the fine linen tablecloth you inherited from your Great Aunt Edna) -- doesn't affect me. I've lived here all my life, grey is my favorite color. What do you have coming? Christmas, and all the dashed hopes, ruined plans and Visa bills.

Wouldn't you really just like to curl up on the couch under a blanket, get yourself some hot chocolate with the little sprinkles on top of your marshmallows, the TV remote in one hand, some cookies in the other, and begin that long, Winter's nap? Your favorite shows are on, and those slippers with the warm, soft fuzzy insides are calling your name.

Go ahead and put down the laptop, close it up, and pull out that book you've been dying to read. Let the rain fall, let the wind blow, just feel the steam from your mug of hot cocoa as it warms your nose. Enjoy the soothing warmth as it slides down your throat, and try not to think about those heating bills to come next month.

How's about some Peppermint Schnapps for that mug?

You know, there's plenty of time to get that novel written. Just kick back, enjoy the early sunsets and long, dark evenings. Maybe knit yourself a sweater for the coming blizzard.

Oh, and if you need my address for mailing all that tea, just let me know.

What the -- ?

Who, What, Why and Where. Writers often use the What If tactic to either come up with a plot, fix a plot, figure out a plot, or plug up a plot.

I do it now and again just to amuse myself, but I'll also utilize it for working out a plot when I need to know the best way to get from point B to point C. And it's a good tool for checking over your novel when it's completed - asking yourself some questions to see if you've left anything open and dangling in the realm of stupidity that your agent/publisher/readers will catch.

The question that I've been pondering lately involves time travel, which usually makes me roll my eyes because too many writers (books, movies, and tv) really screw it up. But my question is: What if those predictions from the 50's were true, and by the year 2007 we're all flying around in our personal hovercrafts, leaving the household chores to our robots, working two days a week from the comfort of our home offices, using our virtual reality computers, and taking long vacations on a resort on Mars?

What if all that were true, and a reality, only someone from the future invented a time machine, traveled back into the past on a lark, and stepped on a butterfly. And thanks to that hapless twit, we have the reality we live in now - which is technically an alternate, someone-screwed-up-and-changed-it reality. We're completely oblivious to this until that hapless twit shows up and apologizes for having fucked us over and set the human race back about a thousand years.

The consequences of that question are explored to a certain degree in my new novel - the one I'm competing with in the Great Tea debacle.

Now, I know what you're saying: If this guy from the future travels to the past and changes the future, wouldn't that cancel out his own existence, thus making it impossible for him to travel to the past in the first place? That's called a time loop, which is solved by the parallel universe theory.

Let's imagine Fred, Barney, Wilma and Betty are standing in Fred's basement, watching as Fred steps into a time machine. He goes "poof" and heads into the past. While he's there, he steps on the proverbial butterfly, thus causing dear old Betty to never have been born. When he returns to the present, he finds Barney and Wilma waiting for him, anxious to hear about his adventure - but no Betty.

Fred stepped on the butterfly, Betty was never born. Fred remembers Betty, realizes what he did - but Barney and Wilma have never heard of Betty. She was never born, so they don't know she's gone.

You're thinking - But, if Betty was never born, then she never married Barney, who then never took that job at the rock quarry, never met Fred, and wasn't there to help him build the time machine in the first place.

Now instead of following Fred, let's stay with Barney, Betty and Wilma. They wave as Fred goes 'poof' then stand there, chatting and enjoying the cheese platter, and wait. Fred has now squashed said butterfly. Does Betty puff out of existence? Does she vanish, leaving Wilma and Barney with a serious case of amnesia? What happened to her wine glass? Did it fall to the floor?

No. What happened was, Betty, Barney and Wilma are left to wait forever - because Fred never returns.

The reality Fred is alive in is the one where the butterfly died, and Betty wasn't born. So that's the only reality Fred can return to.

The reality Wilma, Barney and Betty are alive in is the one where Fred left in a time machine and never came back.

So, could the Terminator have traveled back in time and murdered Sara Conner - thus preventing her son from being born, which would have eliminated the Terminator from ever having to travel back in the first place?

Yes and No. He would have traveled back, killed Sara, and prevented the kid from being born - but that would not have affected the people who sent him. It would have created an alternate reality, wherein Sara Conner was murdered before ever having a son.

Dizzy?

Don't worry - when I go back and spray Raid all over the Jurassic and prevent your birth, it'll only be a reality somewhere else, which is where I'll be, which kinda makes it a win-win for me, eh? :D

A little fix

Some friends brought to my attention that my settings were only allowing registered users to post comments - I didn't realize I'd set it that way, so I fixed that. Still have the word verification anti spamalot thingie, though.

:)

Obsessive Compulsive Slacking

Not too long ago, a writer by the name of Robert Jordan died. A sad occasion, to be sure, but I've heard it said that he was the type of writer who took copious notes. So many notes, that it's possible his next novel could still see the light of posthumous publishing. Good news for his readers.

The other day, my sister and I were discussing this, and she pointed out that - should I pass while in-between novels in a series -- it would be impossible for my 'last' novel to be completed, as I take no notes. Not even she, who lives with me and functions as my best Beta reader, knows what I have in mind. She prefers to read the novels green, without hearing what I have planned ahead of time, because that ruins and/or could influence her thinking as she reads.

It's true, I don't take notes.

I wish I did - I honestly do think they'd be a good idea. And I love notebooks! I have several, some hand made for me as a gift, and several of these black leather bound numbers with a magnetic clasp. I'm drawn to notebooks at the office supply stores, and constantly look for new styles.

Thing is - I'll get a new story idea in my head, and sit down with a pot of Lapsang Souchong, some cookies, a nice micro-fine black gel pen and crack open one of those notebooks . . . then turn into some kind of Wereidiot.

First, I can't use a pen for more than ten minutes before my arm cramps up and my penmanship circles the drain. Second, while I'm not anal-retentive or a neat-freak, my note taking screams for perfect organization. I must have headers, bullet notes, clear, precise and logical points and details.

Basically, what happens is this: Sit down, start writing out character names to get proper spelling. Write the header Chapter One, sit for an hour staring at the lint on the floor, remember what I was doing, jot down some high points, change my mind on the spelling of one character name, rip out the entire page so I can start over.

Yep, can't just cross it out, gotta start over so the notes will be pristine and easy to read!

After a few pages of this, and several re-starts, something will snap inside my head and I'll start inserting lines, crossing things out (like normal humans) and making notes that even I can't read. Then I'll change my mind about the entire plot, need more tea, see something shiny and never open that notebook again.

So, when I become a famous, published author, then die right smack dab in the middle of a series, my readers are gonna be shit outta luck!

But, before anyone think this gives them a distinct advantage in the Great Tea Debacle - fear not . . . For I once penned a 240,000 word epic without jotting down One. Single. Note.

Bwhahahahaha *cough* 'scuse me.

A Nano-we-will-Go!

It would seem that not only am I doing Nano for the second time, but I've entered into a wager with Pete, Carrie and Lori (and anyone else who wishes to chime in before we begin). To the victor goes the Tea!

The thing about Nano (national novel writing month) is that you're allowed to write garbage, so long as you're writing. It's all about BIC (butt in chair) and getting things done. It's helpful for the newbie writer who has never completed a novel-length story, and for writers who might have the occasional issue with Newton's First Law (like me) and it's also just there for those of us who wanna have fun.

Writers often place bets with each other, offer up dares and challenges. Those are useful for the participants who have no idea what they want to write during Nano - someone will challenge the creation of a story with vampire robots, for example, and - having nothing else in mind - a writer(s) will take up that challenge and (try) to whip out 50,000 words.

But then there's us. I'm pretty sure all of us: Me, Pete, Carrie and Lori, have something specific in mind. Novels we fully intended to polish and submit for traditional publication. Nano exists for that, too. It's a way to force out a first draft, or at least the first half, of a novel you wanted to get done and decided to use the challenge as a way to do it.

The orginators of Nano encourage writers to feel free and uninhibited, so they encourage you to put away the internal Editor and go forth, writing garbage if need be.

What might hinder me in this competition is my inability to do just that !

Oh, I can put the Editor away for a while. I often write that way, for the most part. But what I can't do is breeze through a tough scene by simply typing: Insert Better Scene Here. I'm a linear writer, and can't skip ahead or jump around. So when I hit a scene that isn't coming out well, it's like hitting a brick wall with no airbags. I have to write that scene before I can do the next one.

Putting in this blank section with a promise to myself that I can go back and fill it in later makes my hands shake. So this should be interesting. I did complete Nano last year, my first try, successfully, which tells me it can be done, and I can knuckle down and get busy with it when necessary.

And I have a secret weapon this year: Several days of annual leave scattered in around the month. Thanks to a ridiculous work ethic that netted me the nickname Energizer Bunny, I always end up with well over the carry-over limit of leave allowed in a year, and have to scramble to use it up before December 31st.

But - should this leave my competitors trembling in their booties - I also have an art show during the Veteran's Day weekend, and I experience some small difficulty writing at home vs writing at work.

So . . . countdown to the Great Tea Debacle: Tea minus 16 days (or something).

I'll try and put up a counter to show some progress, if I can figure this thingie out.

Mental Dry Heaves

What a pretty topic, eh? That's how my day's going.

It's Monday, and I've come back from having a week off, so naturally I'm grumpy. Having the alarm wake me at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m., then finding a week's worth of backlog piled up on my desk, along with a tummy ache and - I think - a bladder infection, coupled with no less than 5 false starts for blog posts that I ended up deleting.

I couldn't seem to settle on the best topic for today. My frustration at the Automatic Reset Button tv shows keep using. The absurdity of writers who sit around and whine about how hard it is to write. A good rant about how hard it is to write. Or the chaos that is my preferred method of existence.

Then there's the pet peeve I get when watching shows like Property Virgins or House Hunters and see these women who turn down any house that doesn't have a two-hundred square foot closet for their clothes. Here's tip, ladies: Your closets aren't too small, you just have too many clothes!

But not one of those topics is really blog worthy today. Ironically, blogging about how I can't settle on a blog topic is pretty non-blog worthy, too. And yet, here I am.

Trying to avoid that backlogged pile up on my desk. Which, I'll have you know, is now reduced to a small, three-car collision.

Maybe tomorrow I'll blog about something worthwhile. Like Nano. Yes, I'm doing that again, and you know why?

I'll tell you why - It's the law of physics. Newton's first law, to be specific. A body at rest tends to stay at rest until affected by an outside force.

Basically, I'm lazy, and unless I have good reason to sit down (butt in chair, as we say) and Get It Done, I'll find reasons to sit and ponder my next scene or chapter until moss grows on my ass. And here in the Pacificnorthwet, that really doesn't take as long as you might think.

So I'm gonna Nano this new sequel. Yes, it's already started, but I won't be counting the words already written down for Nano. I'll post my word count on November 1st, and work my moss off to get to, if not beyond, an additional 50k by November 30th.

Cheating? I dunno, maybe. I don't think so. Nah. Could be. Not really. Prove it.

Nano nano.

Evil! Pure and Simple from the 8th Dimension!

I may have mentioned before that my sister and I look alike. Same height, same build, same curly hair – hers is auburn, mine blonde. She has brown eyes, mine are blue. But sure, if you see us together it’s clear we’re sisters.

Since when did that become so unusual as to be newsworthy?

We’re used to getting that “Are you twins?” question from waitresses, the occasional salesperson, some dude at Best Buy who’s helping us find the right cables to set up the laptop to the television. But this . . . This was too much.

Friday we meet after work, leave her car at her workplace, and go to dinner. Nothing unusual there. It’s easier than both of us driving home, getting into one car, and driving all the way back to where we were to have dinner.

It was after dinner, things got nuts.

We both wanted to pick up some new sweaters, I’m in the market for a new bedspread, and we needed a bottle of wine for Saturday dinner with Mom. So we cross the street to the mall, head into JC Penneys, and make our way through to the escalator so I can glance at bedding. As we pass this woman helping a man compare jewelry boxes, she suddenly looks up, mid-sentence with this man, and points at me and declares “Sisters!”

That poor man looked bewildered. My sister hadn’t heard her, and I just rolled my eyes and kept going.

We get up to the houseware section, and I’m glancing at bedding – finding nothing I like – then wander through the furniture department (we’re in the market for two chairs and a table). As we pass a couch that a couple is seriously contemplating, the saleswoman helping them looks at us as we pass and says, out loud “Oh, look at the sisters! You two could be twins!”

My sister smiled, I shook my head and we kept going.

Making our way out of the furniture department, we head back down, making straight for World Market to get wine. Now, in our mall you have to pass through half the mall, then walk through the Barnes & Noble to get to World Market, since there’s no mall entrance for that store. I paused in Barnes & Noble to try and find some books by friends of mine that have recently been released (couldn’t find a single one) but did hear one woman telling her friend “Look at those two sisters! How about that?”

We left, went to World Market. Bought wine, had a nice conversation with the wine lady who, thankfully, didn’t think remarking about our family ties was appropriate.

But the cashier sure thought it was wild ! “Sisters!” she declared as if we were unaware. “You’re twins, aren’t you?” “No,” was my reply. Then she got upset, like we were being rude in denying it.

We get out of World Market, make our way back toward Penneys – hearing “Sisters!” and seeing pointed fingers twice more along the way.

Back in the store, where we find some tops, we endure two more clerks declaring out loud, with pride and astonishment, that we’re sisters. Followed by the inevitable “Twins?”

Okay. I get it. We look alike. Not really, but I can see how people think that.

What I don’t get – what I will NEVER understand, is this need people have to declare it loudly and proudly, like they’ve just seen proof of fairies. My GOD, people! Sisters exist. Yes, sisters really do exist. Grown women, related to each other, often do go shopping together. They can be found having coffee together, looking for clothes together, even – on occasion – having dinner together in public !

Shocking, I know. It’s even a little terrifying. But let’s try and remember, if we can, that sisters are just people. Just regular people, like you and me.

Even sisters put their pants on one leg at a time.

So the next time you see two women together, walking down the street or browsing in the shoe department, see if you can refrain from drawing attention to them. And maybe, just maybe, if you’re polite, quiet and discrete, they’ll leave a quarter under your pillow.

Thank you, Dr. Scalabrin

I had a light bulb moment yesterday while driving to work.

With my current novel, I had the plot worked out, except for a couple of rather major points, and they were beginning to give me fits. I knew my major players were going to find A, and discover B about it, and go on to use C. But I was having a real hard time figuring out how and when they should find A, and the best way to go about them learning B.

Oh, I came up with ideas, but not one of them held enough water to satisfy me. There were weak sections, and part of it sounded like a serious cop-out. The whole issue was looking more and more like lazy plotting and I won't tolerate that.

Do I panic? Does my brain lock up when faced with a plot problem that's looking more and more like I should give up the whole ship and find a new ride?

Nope.

And I have my childhood dentist - Doctor Scalabrin - to thank. When I was young, in 4th grade, I had an accident in gym class playing volleyball, the result of which was a dislocated thumb and a broken front tooth. Naturally following that, I had to have a root canal so I could get a new front tooth - and as luck would have it, since there was still growing to be done - that false tooth had to be replaced a few times as I grew.

Naturally I wasn't a fan of those injections in the mouth - who is? So I'm sitting there in that chair, anticipating the needle, all tensed up and unhappy, and my dentist explains to me that the only reason those injections in the gums hurt, is because patients tense up. If you would just relax, and I mean seriously relax, every muscle in your body (except the bladder!) then they wouldn't hurt at all.

So he showed me how to relax. He taught me right then and there how to loosen up every muscle in my body, force them all into a more relaxed state, and calm my mind. Then, once I was pretty sure I'd done it right, he injected me (several times).

I felt nothing.

Seriously. I. Felt. Nothing.

Since then, with every dental visit I have that requires injections, I practice the same technique and the visit goes so smoothly, I've on many occasion fallen asleep in the chair. I'm so good at that, whenever I so much as enter the waiting room of a dental office, I get drowsy and have dozed off just waiting for my name to be called. I've had two more root canals since then, and twice had a "deep cleaning" wherein they inject you 8 times to numb your entire mouth to use the ultrasonic cleaner. Each time they had to wake me when it was over.

Long ago, I realized that same method works extremely well with writing.

Any time I've come up against a plot issue, or a stumbling block in a story, I've learned if I simply relax - don't panic - and keep myself open to possibilities, the solution will suddenly come rushing into my head. Sometimes this takes a week, sometimes just a few days. Usually it comes when I'm beginning to fall asleep, sometimes in a dream that I'll remember, sometimes just as I'm waking up, but often - - as it did yesterday - - the perfect solution pops into my head when I'm not thinking about a thing. You know, driving a car doing 70mph in a 60 zone (aka, not thinking about anything)

Like this one did.

Not only is it a fantastic solution to the little problem I had, but it brilliantly ties in something that took place in another novel, wrapping up some ends that were left open, and also opening up some amazing and really exciting avenues I hadn't thought of before.

I'm pumped ! I'm thrilled this solution came along and provided me with so many other solutions I didn't realize I needed. I'm a linear writer, and can't just avoid point C and move from B to D with the intent of coming back to fix C. Some writers can do that, and bully for them, but that ain't me.

I gotta go from A to B to C. That's just me. So when a gap appears, I've learned to relax, let it stew and contemplate it with no pressure applied. Let those muscles loosen up, remove all resistance and anticipation, and the solution can slide right in there between the fibers and painlessly give you a solution.

And I owe it all to my dentist.

Obession, by Calvin Kline

is disgusting. But my latest obsession is a show on the BBC called Torchwood.

Funny story - when this was first being advertised here in the States, I thought it looked pretty cool. A little dark, a little adventurous, maybe good for some action that I'm not finding in anything else. And yes, the leading actor is easy on the eyes (and yeah, I know he's gay - like I had or even wanted a chance! It's just eye candy, people).

But I wasn't sure. I knew it was a spinoff from Doctor Who, and I don't watch Doctor Who. Not that I don't believe it's an interesting show in and of itself - it's just that every year they get the most unattractive actors in all of the UK to be the next Doctor. And, since I've been avoiding that show all these years, I have no idea what's going on.

Anyway, I read a few articles about Torchwood and decided I probably wouldn't like it after all, but the previews still tempted me. So then the first ep comes on, and I missed the first half, but turned it on and saw a scene with the leading man explaining Torchwood to a female police officer, and it was . . . odd.

This dude had no accent.

The show is set in Cardiff, with some of the best accents around, and this leading guy had absolutely no accent whatsoever. And that, for some reason, threw me. I didn't know he wasn't British. I knew nothing of this guy, and I can't say for sure why that threw me so much, but it did.

Then a silly conversation ensued over at AW, the result of which was me giving Torchwood another try. And --

I was hooked.

Well that's my funny story, and I'm sticking to it!

Another show that surprised me was Eureka. I found the premise to be ridiculous, based on the promos when it was brand new, and wrote this one off completely. Then caught the premier on accident, and fell in love. It's quirky, the characters are different, less contrived and clichéd than most.

It worked that way for The Dresden Files, too. I won't bother linking, since that one got axed. And before you ask, I don't read Jim Butcher. I don't care for magic, and I mostly ignored that aspect of the show - I was in it for the film noir aspects of this PI.

For the most part, I can't tolerate network television these days. I find my entertainment on the BBC, sometimes even ordering DVD's straight from the UK that have never aired here in the US. I can play them on my laptop, and thanks to some cables and a switch, watch them on my TV screen.

I'm also heavy into Discovery Channel, HGTV, A&E, and sometimes even Chiller.

So there. And I refuse to apologize! I stopped making excuses and apologies for what I like years ago. Same with my opinions. They're free, a little moist - especially in the winter months here in the Pacific Northwet - and while I rarely ever set them free, they smell pretty.

Helluva lot prettier than Obsession, by Calvin Kline

I'm Gumby, Dammit!

I'm a writer.

I don't care what anyone says. I've written 12 full length novels, and I'm penning #13 as we speak. They've been read by thousands, albeit for free, via e-publishing. Sometimes I just have to remind myself of that.

Remind myself that I do have a talent.

You wanna be a writer? Writing, itself, is the easy part. You get to create entire worlds, invent people and places, thrust them into dramatic and interesting situations, and watch them come out the other side changed, and maybe even ready for a sequel.

Let's say you have a good grasp of your, grammar and punctuation aren’t foreign ideas to you. You have spare time, wherein you type out your tale (or use pen and paper, if you're lucky enough to manage that). And you have all the time in the world.

Once you're done, you'll edit it, make cuts and changes until it's shiny. Maybe you'll even share it with one or three people, to get their opinions and take on it.

Then the worm gets in your brain.

You wanna publish this sucker. You learn all there is to know about writing a query letter. You study and study until you can get a synopsis of your novel down in two pages. Then you start looking for an agent.

You have to start at the top, they all say it. So you check them out -- only the cream of the crop -- and find a handful who rep the genre you just identified yourself with.

After they reject you, you move down the ladder just a bit, and find another, albeit smaller handful of agents accepting queries from the likes of you, the unwashed and previously unpublished masses. (If someone tells you there are hundreds of good agents out there, don't buy it. When you narrow it down to your genre, then narrow those down to who's accepting queries, then narrow those down again to only the legitimate ones, you're in double digits).

By now you've learned just how hard this could be. You've seen slush piles, read horror stories of being passed over, forgotten, your manuscript returned with coffee stains and a rejection letter printed on the back of some dude's electric bill.

Good writing trumps all, they say. If you wrote a story worth publishing, it'll be published.

Actually, that's about half right, a quarter misleading, and a good quarter moldy Yak droppings.

You do need to write a stellar novel. That's absolutely paramount. But then you have to get that novel in front of just the right agent, at just the right time, and hope he/she reads it while you're still living. If the average slush pile fell over, people could be killed. I'm betting it would register on the Richter scale as at least a 2.0.

They say if you can spell and punctuate and have a grasp on the language, you're already in the top 10%. Trouble is, in order to get to your query, they have to read that other 90%, so that by the time they get to the top 10%, they've already drunk themselves silly and gouged out an eyeball with their lunch fork.

So let's say you hear back from your second wave, and get nothing. You move on to stage 3 - the even lesser known agents.

Now we're in dangerous territory. Now we're talking about agents who might be brand new in the business. Maybe so new they haven't made their first sale yet, but no red flags appear beside their names - they're not scams, just wet behind the ears.

Kinda like you, the new writer.

Here's where the pros tell you to run away, maybe not screaming, but doing a quick shuffle.

Why?

Because they're new. Because they haven't made a sale yet. Because while they might be legit, and perfectly well intentioned, they're not a proven winner. So back away, wait until they make that first, second, even tenth sale, then go ahead and give them a second glance.

Kinda reminds me of how you can't get published unless you've already been published.

I'm a writer. I love that part. I hate the rest. Loathe it. My brain starts to shut down in the same way it does when I think I should balance my checkbook. The same way it freezes up when people talk about interest rates and inflation. But it's all part of the business, so I have to deal with it. I have no choice, unless I wanna give up.

This process, as sucky as it is, does work. I get to see it happen all around me, all the time. Writers are landing agents left and right (in that slow motion, Bionic Man way). But after a while, you start to realize you're not the Bionic Man. You're not even Wonder Woman.

After a while, you realize you'd aspire to be Underdog.

That's why when you're hungry, and they've run out of steaks at the BBQ, that ground chuck starts looking mighty tempting.

Alex Marcase

Well he was right. Those old scans Conner brought us -- the ones his father had been carrying around for so many years -- really did show an M-Class planet. We're here now, taking samples and running tests. So far so good, but I'm not ready to sign off on it just yet.

You know the old saying - if it looks too good to be true? Well right now, this place looks too good, know what I mean? There's got to be a snake in this garden somewhere.

Evan thinks I’m jealous.

Says that I've spent my entire career exploring the galaxy, never once happened upon a planet suitable for human colonization, then along comes this kid with some old, faded scans his dad bought off some geezer who knows how long ago, points to one planet out of precious few in this expanse of black, and gets lucky.

Well before you go making any more out of this than it is, believe me when I tell you that's all it was - luck.

Do you know the chances of finding a M-Class planet in a galaxy of millions, with the perfect blend of oxygen and nitrogen, potable water in plentiful supply, soil that can grow crops, weather patterns and temperatures humans can tolerate and a relatively low predator population?

Pretty damn slim.

The fact that we have Earth is miracle enough, but you tack on the twelve other worlds and moons humans have colonized over the centuries, and the odds of ever finding another go down significantly. I don't buy into that idea that if thirteen exist, that means they're plentiful, crap.

Not when me, my crew and countless other explorers have spent entire careers looking for them with no luck.

So the idea that this kid could come along and-- I mean, in his first try make a find like-- To think it's really that easy just makes me wanna . . .

Fuck.

All right, so I'm jealous.

Confessions of a Cereal Spiller

Remember Boo Radely, in To Kill a Mockingbird? That house he lived in, on the corner - the one they stayed away from because crazy people lived there - - Every neighborhood has one. They're typically on the corner, sometimes a woman lives there with several cats. You know the ones.

I've just discovered how those places come to be.

See, my house is on a corner lot. It's a cute little house, with an old, decorative metal fence all around. On the left, along the road, there's a tall, thick hedge running the entire length of the property, giving me privacy on that side. In the back, an alley runs down linking that side road to another side road at the end of the block. That's how I get to my garage, which isn't attached to the house. On my right are two houses, they're rentals that butt-up against each other, so that one house has it's front on our front, and the other house's front is at our rear. I have a really nice, tall wood fence between me and them.

Out front, my house sits back from the road, so there's a nice paved walkway from the front porch out to the street. There you exit through an old metal gate and you're standing on what is considered my driveway. This gravel strip runs the length of the street, and it's where residents park their cars if they don't have a driveway or garage out front.

My mailbox is there.

I have the coolest system ! When I get off work, I drive home, arriving there just after 4pm. If I take this one route it brings me to the front of the house, where I can drive up to my mailbox, open my window, get the key, and get my mail without even turning off the car. Then I drive around on the other road, enter the alley and drive into my garage. That way I get the mail every day, no muss, no fuss, park in the garage and walk to the house using the back door to the mud room.

School's in.

Cue ominous music.

That would mean nothing to me, being without children, if it weren't for Polly Purewater and her Gaggle of Mom's who PARK RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE to pick up little Johnny No-Good and Pollyanna-Sue as the school bus disgorges them.

Yeah, that's right. This school bus, the one that stops on EVERY BLOCK to dump kids out so the brats have no more than a 30-foot walk from drop-off to front-door, stops directly in front of my house.

Okay, I can deal with that. Once a day, during the school year, this behemoth of smoke and noise stops in front of my house, blocking out the sun and the mailman, sits there for a few minutes, then trudges down the road. Once or twice it has arrived as I'm sitting there in my car pulling the mail out of the box, blocking me, the daylight and most of the oxygen in the County, forcing me to wait until it pulls away.

What I can't deal with are Polly Purewater and her Gaggle of Mom's ! They sit there, usually for a good 15 minutes in their butt-ugly sedans, blocking my front walkway, blocking my mailbox, blocking my gate - making it IMPOSSIBLE for me to pull up and get the mail - let alone park in what is technically my driveway, or enter my property via the gate!

And you know what's worse? They litter.

It's not bad enough that when I'm weed-wacking the outside of the hedge so my neighbors don't have to stare at lawn flowers growing in a swatch of lawn I can't see - I'm also picking up beer cans and empty cigarette packages. NOW I get the added bonus of picking up after Polly Purewater and her Gaggle of Mom's as they toss their water bottles, granola bar wrappers and 100-calorie packages all over the front of my property !

I've asked them to stop. (i've considered all manner of other methods - including but not limited to: spike strips, broken glass and a pit-bull)

I've asked them to please park and wait for the little shits on the other road, a mere 10 feet away, so they'd be on the other side of the hedge and at least not blocking my house.

I've asked them to please, for the love of Nature itself, take their trash with them when Johnny Jr. and Pollyanna-Sue get off the bus. My garbage can gets set out in the alley, so it's not up front for them to even take advantage of.

Do they?

Nope.

And you know what really kills me? The part that's gonna be the straw required to break this camel's back?

You know the part that will be written out in black ink and bad physician handwriting on that form they show the judge when they're locking me away?

You wanna know what it is?

Mommy-dearest drives her little shitzus one block.

Only one block.

Yeah, you heard me right.

One.

Block.

Greeks and Agents, lend me your - whatever.

Who was that guy in mythology - the one who had to keep pushing that rock up the mountain, only to have it roll back down to the bottom again, forcing him to start over for eternity?

Sisyphus, yeah, that guy.

Sometimes writing feels like that. Well maybe not writing, exactly, but the act of trying/hoping/struggling/failing/trying to get published, does. It ain't easy, we know that. And frankly if it were, we'd be less inclined to try and do it. That's plain and simple human fact. Not only do we strive to do something, we'll complain that it's awfully hard, that all the cards are stacked against us and that there's really no hope at all - but we know that once we get there, we'll have joined a somewhat elite group and be glad for the fact that, in all honesty, monkey's really can't do this.

No matter how many typewriters you give them.

Would we want it any other way? No, not really. Well, maybe, sure. Yeah.

No.

What we really mean to say is, we want it to hurry up and happen to US, so we can say we finally made it. Like climbing a mountain - for those of us in not-such-great-shape, we'd love to say we climbed that mountain if we could somehow skip all the hard bits where sweat, hard work and some vomiting might occur. Then we'd belong to that knee-toe group of people who can climb mountains. As if that will lend us the respect we've always dreamed of having. (which is an entire blog-post in and of itself, one of these days) ie: Yes, I'm nuts.

I was going to rant in this post about all the cards that are stacked up against us as would-be published writers. The agencies who barely have time to read sentence #1 of your query, let alone a page or three of your manuscript. The big-name publishers who join up with Vanity publishing companies to gain kick-backs of the writers they reject (I'll let bigger brains explain this one - click my linkie-poo to Writer Beware for details). The endless waits of 6-12 months to hear back from partials, knowing that after such a long wait, it's still more than likely going to be a No.

It's bad enough most of us are writing these novels in our spare time - somewhere between the day job that pays the bills, the family, the obligations, the need for food and sleep (if not exercise) and the demands of friends/family/SO's who have no respect or understanding of what you're trying so hard to do.

Oh look, it did just become a rant about how hard this is.

Still, I'm betting there isn't one single one of "us" who made it then looked back thinking "if only it were easier for everyone else." Nah. You don't win Gold in the Olympics and think to yourself "if only it were easier for everyone to win a Gold." What good would your Gold be then? Would it thrill you as much to see your book published, if everyone on your street, in your town, in your entire family - had the same thing happen? Would it matter that your novel was high quality fiction, and everyone else's were rambling incoherent shopping lists?

Would you feel pride, or accomplishment, if you'd just done something that apparently anyone can do?

Which will bring me to the next post later this week: Just who are you trying to impress?

Stephen Cray

Call me Stephen. I am -- rather, I was -- a grad student working on a doctorate in Planetary Biology and Life Science, before the plague changed all that. I still consider myself Professor Collins' assistant. But the university was hit with the disease while we were away, and no one's opened it back up again. I'm not sure any of the higher learning establishments are back up and running just yet.

Where you there? I was. Nick was at the University of Helios giving a guest lecture. He'd sent me to Denton City to pick up some equipment we'd ordered. It happened pretty fast. I was walking from the hotel to the warehouse and people were standing around, coughing and being ill. One minute they were going to work to start their day, the next minute they're passing out on the sidewalks and streets.

Just dropping there, like they'd been hit.

It was chaotic for a bit. Some fell ill more slowly, others were practically dying on their feet. It was happening all around me, but I was one of the lucky ones.

I was -- am -- immune.

Helios was the fifth planet to get hit by this, so by the time we understood what was happening they quarantined the whole planet. Everyone had to stay where they were, no leaving the cities. It was a death sentence for many, but it saved thousands. The University wasn't hit at all, so Nick was safe there. Those of us who were immune had to help enforce the quarantines.

Some survived. I think about ten percent of those who fell ill lived through it. And if you weren't exposed, within days of the first discovery the threat was over.

Billions died overall, if you combine the planets, but on Helios there were about three million deaths. Denton City was wiped out. When the quarantines were lifted, there were fifty three of us still alive.

I never wanted to come back here again, but we're about to land right now. Nick thought we should help the raiding party, make sure they found the equipment we needed and wanted. This is going to be our only chance to get supplies for the new planet, and if we're going to be stuck there the rest of our lives, we have to make the most of this trip.

I'm not sure how I feel about it, yet. Not the stealing, I don't mind that. There's no one left there to need this stuff. But everything's different now. Everyone's plans got changed. Everyone's lives and ideals altered.

We're all missing who we were, and slowly becoming someone else.

The Tower of Doom

So yeah, got the bedroom painted (again) this past weekend. Did it right this time - proper color, sans clothing.

Friday night I cleared out the contents of the room, stacking dresser drawers on top of each other on this ottoman in the living room, then sliding the dresser out to the dining room. All the other furniture too, everything went.

Got the room primed Friday night, then put my mattress down in the living room so I could sleep there - I knew the cats would sleep with me because anything new is funky, right?

And yeah, as I was stacking these dresser drawers on top of that ottoman, I knew it was a bad idea. The whole stack reached up pretty high, and it wasn't as stable as it could have been - but I figured it was too high for the cats to get on top of, and there were plenty of other fun things in strange places to keep them entertained. Right?

Wrong.

I wake up sometime around 2:00 a.m. to a strange sound, look up (I'm on the living room floor, remember) and I see Secret standing on the top of the stack. Not only is he on the top of what I've termed the Tower of Doom, but he's lookin' to go higher and trying to reach out to the top of the cabinet that hides the TV.

I'm flippin' out, but his brother, Rumor, is holding me down - lying on my legs so I can't get untangled from the blankets and get up. I finally did, and got Secret down, but then Rumor wanted to try it.

Needless to say, I got little sleep. My boys were fascinated with the Tower of Doom all night long, since I had no where else to put these drawers and by now the whole living room is so crowded with stuff, it's all I can do to pull one of them off the Tower while the other climbs up the opposite side.

At least they had a good time.

And now I have a room I no longer call the Bat Cave. My clothes remained clean (since I didn't wear them) and there's no more Tower of Doom for my boys to play on.

Now I suppose I should go write some words, eh?

Conner Bishop

Oh, hey, how ya doin'? Listen, you're not gonna believe what just happened! We just had the Big Meeting -- you know, with the ship captains and everyone in charge of this mass exodus -- and Captain Marcase was there. He even shook my hand! He's not as old as I expected.

Anyway, I had these scans that my father used to carry around with him. See, back in the day, my father wanted to be an explorer, only he never got around to actually doing it. But he found these scans somewhere, I think he bought them off a guy, and all my life I remember him carrying them around. If you gave him half a chance, he'd bend your ear for hours about the unclaimed planets out in the black.

So when I heard we were all getting ready to bug outta here, but no one found a planet yet, I figured what the hell? Dad always swore there were good planets in those scans, and I was pretty sure no one had tried looking in that quadrant.

Professor Collins said I should go ahead and show Captain Marcase the scans, but Stephen didn't think I'd have the nerve. And I almost didn't. People usually think I'm too young to know what I'm talkin' about, and I've been called compulsive and maybe a little hyper by those who know me. But I figured Captain Marcase didn't know that. He only just met me, and seemed like a nice enough guy. And he actually took my scans seriously. Or, dad's scans.

Evan scared the shit outta me, though! I knew he'd be there, but I'd never met one before and man, it took all I had to keep cool about it.

Oh, but anyway, we're leaving, did I tell you? The war started, and they figure it's only a matter of time, probably hours, before Threshold is taken, so we're loading up right now. I'm a little freaked, to be honest. The Professor, Stephen and I are assigned to ride on the Ascalon, which means we have to go with that ship to Helio first to steal supplies.

Me. Planetary Biology student Conner Bishop, stealing.

And I don't mean slipping money out of some old lady's purse. We're taking equipment! Huge, friggin' machines, crates and crates of crop starters, and buildings. Friggin' buildings! I can't even figure out how this is gonna go down, loading buildings onto a ship in orbit.

I dunno if they'll have us help or not. But I guess I'll find out soon enough!

Oops! I did it again.

Well, not yet. Tonight after work I'm running to Lowes to buy paint. Again.

Yeppers - that color I put in my room is just way too dark. And it's not just a matter of getting used to a grown-up look, it's just dark. The color was called Country Path - I figure that's fancy talk for Dirt.

It's the friggin' bat-cave! And what gets me is the fact that I should have known better. I'm drawn to darker things, like dark wood picture frames, dark clay yixing teapots, lovely brown suede curtains and comforters . . . well you can't paint a room dark then accent it with the same dark color palette. And I know that. So what I was thinking when I painted that room is beyond me.

So I have a new color - Desert Sand. Much lighter, still very mature-looking. And yeah, this time I'm gonna have to get the primer tinted, to cover over all that dirt that is Country Path.

Tonight I'll get the paint, some painting supplies, then tomorrow after work I'll clear out the room and hopefully have the stamina to apply the primer. Then Saturday it's painting, followed by returning the room to its full glory.

I look at it this way -- In order to form a proper Theory, you have to be able to first test said theory and examine the results, THEN that test has to be repeatable, with the same results.

Which means I'm painting in the nude again, to see if I can stay clean.

I call Bullshit on that!

I should just chalk this up to hormones. I was checking some agent blogs one morning, and one of them had posted a query that recently landed a new writer a great deal with a major publisher, and you know what?

I thought it was pathetic.

Now that's just my opinion, and it isn't a genre I would read anyway. But what killed me was reading this query and thinking to myself "That's a pretty lame query. It seemed to wander, sounded cliché, and what a silly premise." But the agent fell instantly in love, and kudos for this author.

That's one thing we're taught about queries - make them stand out. Make them grab the agent's attention. They have to hook instantly and never let go. They have to be short, and to the point, while also entertaining and tempting enough to make the agent want to read more right away. You have to condense your entire 100k+ novel into about two paragraphs and show them why this story is both like the other books this agent represents, and vastly different than anything they've read before.

Yeah.

Oh, and the best part is when you read an agent's blog detailing what they look for in a query and what they hate - then they post one that "ignored all the rules about what makes a good query but this one really caught my eye - now they have a 4-book 6-figure deal with Putnam."

Great.

Everyone tells you if you can write a novel, you can write your query. Well I call Bullshit on that. The query is the hardest thing you'll ever write in your entire career. Worse even than that eulogy for Aunt Edna. You've just penned a novel at around 103,000 words, with deep, interesting characters, an amazingly beautiful and twisting plot with lovely and interesting side-plots along the way. A story that leads the reader down a wonderful path of discovery wherein they fall desperately in love with your characters. There's intrigue, deception, revelation, discovery, and lots of little bits along the way.

Now describe that to someone who already doesn't want to bother reading it. And make it clear and concise. Oh, and make sure you mention how different it is than anything else out there. Also include why I should want to read it, what makes YOU special. Mention why you decided to query ME, why I am the perfect agent for your story, and why you were the perfect writer for this tale. Hook me with the first sentence. Oh, and do all of this in just three sentences, including your contact information.

Then give me 9 months or more to get back to you. m'kay?

Professor Nick Collins

Oh, yes, Professor of Life Sciences and Planetary Biology, that's me. Go ahead and call me Nick, you're not one of my students, are you? This is all very new to me, what we're about to do. Seems like just yesterday Stephen and I were cataloguing fossil specimens on Ioni. Now we're meeting in secret on this strange little moon, making plans to evacuate under the nose of President Eljandro and her troops.

Oh, did you hear? She's gone and declared herself "Supreme Ruler", which in turn made Admiral Grant challenge her in public. I don't think the first shot has been fired yet, but everyone's calling it civil war.

It's odd, really. There's never been a war in my lifetime. Not one of this magnitude, anyway. Stephen worries that we're taking the coward's way out by leaving like this, but he does agree with me that -- as scientists -- we're really better off staying out of it. We can't help mankind by picking up weapons and, most likely, being killed. But we can by helping to explore and colonize a new world, far removed from this madness, and make that world available to anyone who desires peace and a return to normal life.

Which is what we're doing, by the way. Stephen, my assistant, and Conner -- he's one of my students, but you'll meet everyone later on. I've only just met Captain Marcase and his people, and I'm not quite sure what to make of them yet. Oh, don't get me wrong, they're a fine group of human beings. I think it's just that, I was expecting something a little different. Maybe someone older, I dunno.

Maybe it's because none of us really knows what to expect. No one's really done this before, not the way we're doing it, anyway. Usually when you colonize a new planet, someone's found it first. Then a group of brave souls volunteers to be first, and slowly, over time, a community is formed.

That's typically when Stephen and I come along. We research and investigate new plant and animal life on worlds that have been lived on for at least a year. But now -- well, right now we don't even have a world to explore, unless Conner's late Father's maps are correct. That'll be up to Captain Marcase to decide, but I'm afraid we don't have all that much time left.

We may just find ourselves living onboard a very crowded ship, sneaking around space looking for a home while trying to avoid this crazy war.

Let's hope for the best, shall we?

Painting Nudes

Or "What I did Labor Day Weekend".

So four years ago, give or take a month or two, I had this attack of whimsy and took it out on my bedroom. My sister and I had saved enough to finally buy new carpet for our bedrooms, and decided if we were going to splurge and do that, we should go ahead and paint before it was installed. That way we could be as messy as we wanna be, since the carpet was being pulled up.

So the aforementioned whimsy attack occurred, and in my defense, my sister was similarly attacked. Which resulted in painting my room a lovely lavender, with darker purple stars stenciled on the ceiling in a random pattern. Oh, sure, some of those stars found their way to the walls, too. My sister, similarly afflicted, painted her room pink, with darker pink hearts.

Yes, I know. What can I say? At the time, it seemed appropriate.

So recently we both came to our senses and realized we weren't 12 years old. The rest of our house is very tastefully painted, with hardwood flooring throughout (except the kitchen). We decided it was time to bring the bedrooms up to speed, since they can be seen from the living room.

Anyhoodle - we painted our rooms this weekend. She went with a soft, grown-up mint green to accent her burgundy carpet, and I went with this soy latte-brown, to make my blue-grey carpet blend in.

And so the painting began. Or rather, the prep work. We couldn't get an early jump on things thanks to a water main break right off our property on Wednesday evening that kinda ruined us for a few days - so Saturday we got started clearing out the rooms. We'd figured we could leave the beds in there, and paint around them - but after applying the primer and having a real hard time doing it, we decided the beds had to go. On Sunday, the beds were disassembled and removed, then plastic replaced on the floors, and painting ensued.

Let me explain, I'm a very messy painter. I'm wearing old jeans, a t-shirt I don't care about, and I already have a ginormous glob of primer on one shoulder (it just missed my face by an inch). While doing the trim work, I realized I was going to run out of paint - even though my room is 100 square feet, and I had a gallon ! I made it through, but took a look at the walls and you could see two colors there - not roller marks, but clearly the primer hadn't covered everything smoothly. We should have tinted the primer, but didn't.

My sister's room turned out great, probably the lighter color she was using, and she had some left over. So another trip to Lowe's nets me a second gallon, then we run to Olive Garden for some quick take-out . . . long story short, we got dinner for free!

I get home, we eat, and I figure I'd best get to painting. By now, I've been wearing these same paint-splattered jeans and t-shirt for two days, and I've discovered my bra has a tear at one seam (I'm pissed about that) so, since it's pretty hot in the house, and the curtains are all pulled closed, I decided to paint in my undies. If I splatter again, it'll just land on me, and if it hits my bra, I'm tossing it soon anyway. The panties - well they can always get tossed, too.

So I put down some plastic, figuring I just have to paint the walls with a roller, basically cover the majority of the area, and I'll be fine. With every expectation of being covered in paint . . . I do the entire room without spilling so much as ONE DROP on me.

Not one drop.

Thus, I've concluded the best way to paint a room and stay neat and clean doing it, is to strip naked and throw caution -- and your boobies -- to the wind.

Now, to be honest, my room color turned out a bit darker than I expected -- I've dubbed my room "The Bat Cave" since painting it, but it's really nice. It's all grown-up looking, and decorated with stuff I had previously, but in a better way now. But this color is much more conducive to displaying my collection of Japanese teapots. It's brown, but with a plum accent to it in the right light. (and there we go talking about plums again).

The only thing is, when I woke up this morning, I thought I was in someone else's room.

Guess I'm not used to this "grown up" stuff yet.