I think I need to get into couples therapy. I’m really beginning to hate Francesca and Thomas. Well, maybe hate is a strong word, maybe it’s resent. I know that I am not experiencing anything that a million other authors haven’t already felt before me, but I don’t care about them. This is about me. The Sister’s are still agonizing over the 1st three chapters of Seeing Love Clearly, and now we’re dragging other people down with us.
Francesca is a drama queen that insists on making her life more difficult than it needs to be, and Thomas’ psychoses keep changing. Something definitive needs to happen to these people and their lives. I need to be rescued from this nonsense.
I’m sure that you’re reading this and have no idea what I’m talking about at all, but neither do I. That’s really the point, isn’t it? The plot and it’s issues are swirling about me in a hypnotic mess. I’ve read it and considered it from every angle. I’ve second guessed myself until I’m not sure of anything anymore.
My Honey, the musician, keeps telling me that at some point you have to decide that you’re done and quit messing with it. How do you know when that is? How do you know when it’s pudding and not just a bunch of ingredients?
I’m feeling very angsty, like I’m thirteen and the boy I like doesn’t notice me. It’s time to break into the birthday Godiva again. I’ll be 9,000 pounds by the time this book is done.
“It’s hot. This is like Africa hot. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stay here if it’s going to be this hot.” – Biloxi Blues
This is one of my favorite movie quotes, maybe because I get to say it a lot. We had a bunch of errands to do today so we ventured into one of the big box home imporvement stores. As I live and breath, there were Christmas trees up and all the inflatable lawn decorations with Santa and snowmen, etc. I don’t know about the rest of you, but good God, I find it impossible to really even consider Christmas when it’s 102 degrees out. That’s just ridiculous. 102 – if I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’. I sincerely might be melting.
This weekend, My Honey made crab for dinner. He’s a good Honey and I’ll probably keep him. Anyway, he asked me what kind of wine went well with crab, because he decided to saute some veggies and figured we’d just drink the rest. I picked Gewurztraminer because it’s my favorite white.
At dinner, Sassy and The Bandit was very curious about what we were drinking. I told them wine. Sassy wanted to know if that was alcohol. I told her it was. She scrunched up her nose in disdane. She has the same opinion of alcohol as she does smoking cigarettes. I agree with only half of her assessment. The Bandit wanted to know more.
“What does the wine taste like?” he wanted to know.
My Honey offered him a sip, assuming he wouldn’t like it and that would be the end of it. The Bandit nodded eagerly, and his daddy gently tipped the wine glass to his lips, giving him the tiniest sip. Even while he was swallowing the liquid, he was giving My Honey a tiny little thumbs up. He even licked his lips.
After the crab was ravaged, I was loading the dishwasher, and the kiddos were clearing the table. I looked over and there The Bandit was, drinking the last of my glass. He only got about two swallows, but still, what I need is for that little boy to have less inhibitions. Just ask my coworker who witnessed him running around the parking lot at my work on Friday with his pants around his ankles. Deep sigh. I can’t wait until he’s old enough for me to embarrass him. I’m going to take that job very seriously.
We had another great meeting of our writers group. You writers out there, if you don’t belong to a writing group, I strongly suggest that you do so, soon. There is so much to be gained by membership: the feeling of sorority (or in some cases fraternity), really good feedback, continuing education, and so much more.
Today’s meeting had a very specific workshop about first sentences. This is a subject that Ava and I have been struggling with at great length on Seeing Love Clearly. We met a prospective member, whom I sincerely hope joins, who actually gave Ava and I the most helpful feedback we’ve ever received. Ava, Isabella and I are too close to the story at this point and, now sometimes, we can’t see the forest for the trees. So, Jess, if you read this, thank you! You were a great help.
On an unrelated note, I am reading Dan Brown’s latest, The Lost Symbol, on my Kindle. I enjoy his books, they are a great mystery romp, and I’m always up for an engaging story. The only thing though, I want to read the darn thing in front of my computer. I constantly find the need to soothe my curiosity by looking up references on line. My capacity for getting side tracked is well documented on this site. It will take me 20 minutes to look up something in a dictionary because I aways get lured away by interesting words or illustrations. And an old fashioned encyclopedia (do they even make those anymore?), forget it. Reference books are the love of my life and the bane of my existence. However, if I ever get on Jeopardy….. Anyway, it’s taking me way longer than usual to read this book since I spend half the time looking things up on Wikipedia and Google images. I’m only 53% done with the book.
That leads me to one of my few complaints about the Kindle. It doesn’t tell you how many pages you are, but rather your percentage of completed pages. The other thing is that I’m a page flipper. I like to flip back and reread something, or look up a previous passage, that kind of thing, and the Kindle is not really user friendly in that manner. The last thing is totally my own fault; as soon as someone sees me reading it, they want to ask all kinds of questions about the reader, and I allow myself to be interrupted and gush about how much I love it. Really, AMAZON, if you’re listening, I ought to start receiving a bonus check or commission from you people. I’ve sold more of these than I can believe. Feel free to contact me for where to send the check.
Sassy’s private school has a gym teacher, and the lower grades have organized PE with him twice a week. My beautiful Sassy came to me last year during her first week of kindergarten with a request.
“I’m gonna need a note,” she informed me.
“What for?” I asked.
“For P.E. I’m not going back there.”
“Why? P.E. is fun!” I said with false enthusiasm. I don’t think for one minute that P.E. is fun. I didn’t in school, and I don’t now. Even when Isabella and I were going to the gym and meeting with a personal trainer three times a week, I bitched and moaned through the whole thing. That would probably explain my physique. But, I’m a mom now, and therefore, duty bound to be enthusiastic about crappy things like homework and creamed corn.
“Mom,” she said with her hip cocked and that long suffering expression she’d mastered even at 5, “P.E. is just not my thing.”
Of course, I did not give her a note. I’m the Worlds Meanest Mom. This is not a title I hold lightly. I made her keep going and, lo if something amazing didn’t happen. Within two weeks, it turned out she loved basketball. HA! I later discovered that the real deal wasn’t an ever abiding love of air inflated balls and sweating, my sweet Sassy had a crush on Coach. Coach, as they call him (they’re young and have no sense of irony) is a young, good looking man. I thought it was adorable. Her father, not so much. Men are weird.
At dinner this evening, I asked Katie about her day. She is now old enough that I have to fish information from her, and then I have to weed out the truths from the exaggerated and entirely fabricated fiction. Six year olds are complicated. I can’t wait until she’s thirteen. I’m going go ask for an epidural when she starts getting her period. I asked if she had P.E. today. She nodded that she did.
“You still loooooooove Coach?” I teased.
She got an expression on her face I didn’t immediately recognize. “I don’t like Coach anymore. Not like that.”
“Because he got a hair cut. AND he didn’t even notice that I got mine cut.” She was very indignant.
What a disappointment. I guess there are some lessons that are best learned young.
Alright. It’s a new day, a new start. I will be bucking up like the good little camper that I am. I’m on the look out for a new publisher. In fact, I spent most of the evening watching Project Runway and searching out publishers for short stories or novellas. I found several very strong possibilities. I may need to add a little to the word count, but if I’ve learned nothing on this journey, it’s that you must embrace revisions. The biggest problem that I have encountered with Out of Heaven is that it doesn’t really fit comfortably in any of the common sub genres of romance. It’s not really dark enough to fit into paranormal or normal enough to fit into contemporary. It’s a weird place to be in. I really like that story, it is so very different than anything else I’ve written. I like the feel of it and dread the possibility of changing it dramatically. But then again, everything else I’ve written has fit nicely into a predestined sub genre.
Besides a new publisher, there are a few other things I’d like. More time in the day. Some more money would be good – the winning lottery numbers would suffice. A normal dog is pretty high on my list.
I’ll just keep wishing and thinking positively and working hard.
I didn’t post anything yesterday, neither on this blog or on Twitter. I got a horrendous migraine while at work. It felt like someone hit me over the head with a 2×4, and then my brain swelled and would no longer fit in my head. Absolutely nothing would touch the pain. When I got home from work, I went straight to bed, except when I got up to vomit. It was a doozy. My husband asked what he could do for me. I suggested a bullet.
This morning, I woke up and it was still there, albeit not as bad as yesterday. I took one of my super-whammy pills and it did a pretty good job of suppressing it. There was absolutely no way I could call in sick. I knew there would be issues at work that would make that impossible. The only problem is, the super-whammy pills makes me feel almost as bad, just different. Among other things, the medicine makes my arms and shoulders go numb, and I feel confused. That makes for a great employee, I’ll tell you. I’m sure my boss will be thrilled to hear how capable I was today.
So, that was my mind set today when I got one of the emails I’ve been waiting for. It was there on my phone. My heart stopped for at least a couple of beats. I opened it up and read it excitedly. Harlequin was responding to my submission of Out of Heaven, the story of the arch Angel Gabriel. It was rejected.
It was a perfectly lovely rejection. (sniff ) I’ll submit it elsewhere. (sniff) My writers group allows for a one day pity party, for completely and totally wallowing in dispair. I will eat some Godiva and maybe some ice cream. (sniff) And then I will submit it somewhere else.
But for today, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Isabella just told me of a dream she had yesterday where eHarlequin bought The Sea Rose. She said that it was very vivid – she was at work, smelling the coffee in the breakroom when I call her to tell her they offered to buy my story.
Isabella is a champion dreamer. She is able to remember them often, and they are usually very odd. I don’t remember my dreams, except on rare occasions. There was one remarkable instance involving Al Pacino that I flit back to every once in a while, but I got off topic.
Everyone out there, let’s cross our crossables, OK? Think happy thoughts, click your heels together or whatever it takes.
My house was beginning to resemble a sty. Sincerely. I even think the The Bandit’s nose was starting to pucker up like a snout. It will be bulk trash pick up this week at the Bright Compound, so My Honey was out cleaning up the yard and the terrifying area behind the shed in the back. There’s black widows back there, and there isn’t a book deal big enough for me to go back there and mess around with them.
I opted for inside the house. I dusted and vacuumed and steam cleaned the carpet. I washed windows and disinfected. I mopped. That is significant because in our pre-marriage counseling, it was well documented that I don’t mop. I would rather clean the toilets than mop. Don’t ask me why, the second chore is infinitely more disgusting and icky, but nevertheless, I REALLY hate mopping, but I did it. It’s better than black widows.
Because I was going to steam clean the carpets, I also moved all the furniture and did a really good vacuuming job. I even used the attachments to clean inside the couch and chair. Perhaps this particular job should be done more often. This is what I found in the living room furniture:
194 crayons of various lengths, 73 cashews, a Pez dispenser (empty), the missing telephone that now has a dead battery, a bread bag with 2 pieces of stale bread (thank you Roscoe), countless rubber bands, vacuum resistant glitter, 1 really big ass rock, 1/2 eaten apple, a shriveled but unpeeled tangerine (I think), 12.52 in various coins but mostly pennies, and 1 neighbor kid whom I sent home with the cashews.
Maybe I should have picked the spiders.