Viva!

Daily Stats:
Words: 800
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: none...saving self for weekend
Reality TV: DVR'd Tabatha's Salon Takeover

Oh, my dearest devoted readers, you haven't a clue how blissfully excited I currently am! In exactly 29 hours, I will be hopping on a plane. Where to, you ask? Oh, just this little po-dunk town called LAS VEGAS! Oh, that's right. I am headed to sin city to spend quality relaxing time at the Bellagio pool with my sister (the lovely and talented Amy Ellis) and my cousin Krissy (yes, this is the same cousin Krissy that I've mentioned in previous posts. There will be foolish behavior. And possibly some funky dance moves).

And, although I was growling at the fact that I couldn't get direct flight, it occurred to me that it will be perfect writing time. Although...I am taking Frontier Airlines. Did you know they have TVs in EVERY seat!!! With Direct TV??? This may pose a problem.

Anyway...I would bid all you lovely people adieu for now, but something tells me there may be "on location" posts reporting our ridiculous behavior. (...did I mention I'm bringing my camera?)

Things I want...

Daily Stats:
Words: 1400
Caffeine: morning cup + midday iced latte
Evil Calories: chocolate chip cookies and Mac n' Cheese
Reality TV: Rachel Zoe Project

The following is a list of random things that I want (in no particular order):

1. World peace
2. A chocolate croissant
3. Flattering jeans made for human women with curves, not for freaks shaped like nine year old boys
4. To finish my book
5. To finish my book
6. To finish my book
7. A prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich
8. To finish my book

Slightly (not even close to being) there...

Daily Stats:
Words: 2000
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: pizza at 11:00pm last night...bad idea, folks
Reality TV: Tabatha's Salon Takeover on Bravo

Is the universe not aware that I'm trying to write a book? Does it think I'm just surfing Clive Owen fansights when I'm at my computer? (okay...10% of the time, maybe.) I need the universe to throw me a bone. Just a teeny one.

My little guy is on the mend, inhaling honey nut Scooters at light speed (knock-off Cheerios...hey, I'm a frugal mommy, what can I say?) But now the family room had decided to become diseased. No matter what we did, we couldn't get the carpet to dry after in influx of water last weekend, and it began smelling like 800 different kinds of ass down there. To the point where even my son would walk down there, wrinkle his nose and say, "nasty". So, last night we were up until midnight ripping out the carpet. Did I mention that our house was built in the late 50's? You should see what was under it. Looks like something the Brady Bunch collectively spewed forth. We had hopes for nice wood flooring, but nay. So, today, we have to figure out what we're going to put down there in place of the carpet, which will surely result in a five hour trip to Home Depot. Five minutes in that store and I instantly want to take a nap. I really need to work on that "disgustingly rich" thing so I can just hire someone to do it for us.

Meanwhile, my poor little WIP just sits drumming it's fingers on my hard drive, checking its watch, looking through our Niagara Falls vacation pictures for the umpteenth time. Poor thing.

And finally...

Daily Stats:
Words: ...help...
Caffeine: morning cup + morning cup + morning cup + morning cup
Evil Calories: can't remember
Reality TV: anything that will make the boy happy and agree to drink apple juice

I am a zombie. Not the "living dead, hungry for your brain" variety. No. I have reached the zombie-like state that can only be brought on by having a sick child. There truly is nothing like having a sick almost-three-year old. They're at that point where they know what they want (and don't want), yet they aren't quite in tune with how to tell you using practical means, such as words. When my little guy gets sick, he likes to communicate solely through shit-fits. Of course there are varying degrees of shit-fits. If I try and talk him into eating a few little apple slices, we reach defcon-3. If I try and take his temperature or give him some Tylenol, we hit defcon-5. It's loads of fun.

But I know he feels like crap, and I understand where he's coming from. When I'm sick, do I want someone rubbing their face all over mind, trying see how hot I am? Hell no. That would surely result in someone being pelted with the Kleenex box.

Anyhoo, in the tiny little breaks I've had between naps and shit-fits, I managed to write my final installment for Tell Me What To Do. Couldn't bear to leave my dear friend Elizabeth hanging any longer. It's a bit short (blame the shit-fits), and a little dark for me. I wrote it after only three hours of sleep and then went back a few hours later after I'd napped and was a bit alarmed at myself. It's funny what lack of sleep will do to you.

so, here it is...

Original prompt by Elizabeth (read her fabulous blog here):

The priest's sermon seemed endless, but I didn't really care, as it gave me time to pick the dried blood out from under my nails.

And my take...

The priest's sermon seemed endless, but I didn't really care, as it gave me time to pick the dried blood out from under my nails. Flakes of red falling, scattering, collecting on my skirt. I clean one, then move on to the other, the sound of them flicking together drowning out the message; the reminder; atone, atone, atone. The priest, with his voice disconnected, reading pages, reciting, adjusting his glasses again and again. Everyone around me drawn in, nodding, hands clasped. The blind leading the blind. Going through motions, unwilling to truly give themselves. To truly commit. To fight. On to the next nail, and the next. Digging. Picking. Finding peace. Nudging away images. That man. One of many living among us. Criminals. Demons. Cancers, nipping at our heels. No sign of rehabilitation. Souls blackened by the lives they destroyed. Preying, lurking, planning. I only did what needed to be done. What any mother would do. It was only a matter of time before his weakness resurfaced and assumed control.

Last nail, clean. I look at Jonah, his tiny curls swaying from the spinning fan overhead. So many outside forces we can’t control. Unpredictable darkness.

But he’s safe now. For one more day.

When it rains, it pours...literally

Daily Stats:
Words: 3000
Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning cappuccino
Evil Calories: homemade brownies (I love me)
Reality TV: Alton Brown Feasting on Waves

Thanks to the tail-end of hurricane Ike, I've spend almost the entire weekend inside. Writing, eating brownies, writing...watching water seep into my basement. The people that used it to live here had two enormous dogs. Water + stale dog smell = nasty. Which is why cats rule. They don't stink and they happily poop in a box. What more can you ask for in an animal?

So, I should be about 5000K words ahead of where I actually am, but apparently moping up rain water is more important than me working out my MC's "inner child" issues. I mean...yes, I can work it all out in my head while I'm getting oog water all over my fuzzy pink slippers, but until they invent a mind reading inkjet printer, I still have to carve out the time to write it all down. Can't those uber-nerds stop cloning sheep for three seconds and invent something useful??

Wha...?

Daily Stats:
Words: a lot
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: more yum-tastic sugar cookies
Reality TV: DVR'd Top Design

I had a very strange dream last night about one of my characters from my previous book. Though he was written as a very "together" dude, he popped up in my dream all disheveled and slightly vagrant-like. In fact, I didn't even recognize him at first. My friend Shannon and I were walking through the mall inside of the Starship Enterprise (it's located on the Picard level, right next to the 24 Hr Fitness, by the way) and my character was slumped on a bench by this weird water fall thingy (the water was actually going up...so a water... rise?). He looked terrible! He was all dirty; clothes ripped and hair matted and frizzy. He didn't say anything; he just shifted around anxiously, giving me a nervous half-smile. After we passed him, I said something to Shannon, who told me I was crazy ("like we'd run into him here") and then she said she had to hurry home before her crepes were done.

(If you knew Shannon, you'd be laughing.)

I woke up with this horrible sense of guilt. Is there some parallel universe where all the characters I've created are living? And because I have several projects just collecting dust inside my "Poo Lives" folder on my computer, are these characters just wandering aimlessly, lonely and confused?

Was he trying to tell me something? Was it a sign?

Or was it just the result of the 400 sugar cookies I had before bed?

Oh, cheeky cheeky...

Daily Stats:
Words: 1700
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: really yum-tastic sugar cookies I made yesterday
Reality TV: meh...mondays suck

...oh, naughty sneaky. (It's a Brian Eno song for those who don't know. It popped into my head yesterday, and now it won't go away, so I thought maybe if I wrote it, it would vacate my melon. I'll let you know if it works...)

So, as you can see over there, After Charlie is scooting right along. Now, I may or may not have actually started officially writing it, and instead I may or may not have spent the entire weekend pounding out a very long winded outline. This is completely out of step with how I normally write, but holy crap on a crap cracker, it's totally working for me! Maybe because I spent almost 50K words on what the story shouldn't be, and now I know what it should be and I need to lay it out for myself so I don't get 10K works into this new version and start falling back into the same little "fanciful/gag-me-salad-tongs" potholes.

This is also the time where I get very anxious, because if I had my druthers (whatever the crap those are), I'd write all day, only stopping to take coffee and scones breaks. But, I've got this little thing called an "almost three year old". He hates the silver little box that mommy's always tapping on. He either walks up to me and closes the lid or tells me he has to check his email so he can talk to Aunt Amy (yes, yes, Ms. Ellis, it's cute and all, but annoying as hell!). So, I'm back to sprinting to my computer at breakneck speed the moment the boy's head hits the pillow for nap time. If anyone has a spare nanny, could you be so kind as to send her my way?

Ode to Chuck

Daily Stats:
Words: 1800
Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning iced latte
Evil Calories: melty yummy dark chocolate thingys
Reality TV: Project Runway

So, on we go with Tell Me What To Do. Next in line is the prompt by the lovely and talented Amy Ellis. Now, since Ms. Ellis knows me SO well, I tried to give this something she wouldn't be expecting. Although, seeing as she's known me since I was in diapers, I'm not sure if I could surprise her.

I also took this opportunity to give a little shout-out to my favorite writer of all time, Charles Dickens. If you're not familiar with the particular piece I referenced, you might be thoroughly confused. Then again, if you're not familiar with the particular piece I referenced, you might need to be slapped several times, as it is one of the best pieces of literature ever written. Get thee to a library!

So, you know, usual disclaimer...first draft, bag-o-poo and all that. Bla, bla, bla, here we go...

Original prompt from Amy Ellis

I knew this would be an interesting day when I discovered that the barista had put espresso in my chai and that some smart ass had tinkered with my Pandora, replacing my regular Cure station with Toby Keith.

And my take:

I knew this would be an interesting day when I discovered that the barista had put espresso in my chai and that some smart ass had tinkered with my Pandora, replacing my regular Cure station with Toby Keith. My first thought was to shut my computer and jump out the window. Too risky, though. Surely one of the drones from quality control would see me and I’d be written up for violating code.

I smacked the delete button, sending Toby Keith into oblivion. I’m surrounded by dimwits, but there’s one in particular who would willingly sink low enough to trifle with my daily dose of 80’s Goth. If I had half the energy that I used to, I’d seek some refreshing form of revenge. Force good old Fritz to re-think all his clever little ideas.
Conjure a hair-thinning spell. Call child services about those annoying brats he always has with him. Ignorance and Want. Please. He thinks we don’t see them parading around in designer Wellies?

It may seem tacky to accuse the Ghost of Christmas Present of foul play, but despite what people think, he’s not all jolly insights and bountiful feasts of roasted pig and pistachio pudding. Like most spirits in his class, he fancies himself quite the prankster, and a charmer to boot. Most of the girls in accounting eat it right up. I, on the other hand, have the overwhelming desire to cram that blazing cornucopia up his ass every time we have a run in.

There was a time when I was a revered spirit. I certainly didn’t have to clout that X had - in all his nine feet of glory, shrouded in layers of black, face hidden, wielding that creepy, boney finger – but I held my own. I was the first. I set the tone, saddled with the overwhelming responsibility to make the whole “you’re being haunted by three spirits on Christmas Eve” believable. It takes a certain charm to convince people in one moment that they aren’t dreaming, and to get them to cling to your robe while you fly around London in the next. I’d like to see Fritz try it and not wedge himself between the shutters with that enormous gut of his.

Part of the problem is that I hate my job. It used to be much easier to convince people they were bad. Show them a few shifty things they’d done in their past and they where well on their way to rehabilitation. But now people aren’t just bad, they’re dumb as shit. I have to find numerous ways to explain why it’s unfortunate to sue your own mother because she accidentally hit your car while she was having a seizure. It takes all the patience I can conjure to not dump them headfirst into the Island Barn reservoir.

I sipped my tainted chai and read through my inbox. Full day. CEO in Whitechapel who disowned his gay son, landlord in Fullham who evicted a woman with breast cancer. Hum drum, la-dee-da.

Until I looked closer. Waiting patiently at the bottom of all the drivel was an email, with the subject “change of heart...bring on the chains!”. Sender, scrooge21@hotmail.com.

Oh, shit.

Goodbye to Sandra Dee

Daily Stats:
Words: yes, have some
Caffeine: morning cup so far
Evil Calories: cupcakes, peach crisp, waffles...oh my
Reality TV: mondays suck

Look over there...

After Charlie is starting over. It needs to, for it is a ragamuffin of a book. Disjointed, unrealistic, gag-me-with-a-fork-cheesy. I can admit when I've made a colossal error in judgement. It was trying to be A STORY. Now I see that it just needs to be a story. Simple. I always think way too big, overshoot and land in middle of nowhere. I need to think small, nudge it just enough scoot a little ways in front of me, but close enough so I can still reach it. And I'm flushing the out-of-touch, fanciful storytelling. Life isn't cherry blossoms and a perfect apple pie. Life sucks. But sometimes there's chocolate and people who make you laugh so hard you pee your pants a little bit. Isn't that far more interesting?