You know what I’m supposed to be doing?  Coming up with the plot for Dalton’s book since I lost the meat of the thing in the lap top debacle and I wrote it so long ago I can’t really remember what happened.  I know the gist of it, but honestly, I didn’t know where the plot was going ….. just where it needed to end up.

I went to Walgreens after the kids went to bed and bought poster board and sticky notes so I can work it all out.  I also bought M&M Pretzels.  I highly recommend them.  Of course, they’re totally not on my diet, but whatever.

When I got home, Sassy was asleep enough that I could get my Tooth Fairy duties out of the way.  Her father and I can’t get over how much money some of her friends get from that damn fairy.  That’s what we get for sending our kids to a private school.  But her daddy and I will not cave to the peer pressure. 

Some of my other prize winning parenting skills are evident this week, too.  I have entrusted Sassy, the seven year old, with making sure I, her forty-one year old mother, gets up on time in the morning.  How awesome is that? 

I’m teaching her responsibility, right?  But why shouldn’t I utilize her natural habit of early rising?  It seems like a win win to me.  And she’s much nicer about waking me up – and being persistent about it, than my father ever was.  I know I’m not easy to wake up, but I seriously hope I never see Sassy standing over my bed swirling a pot of ice water.

If I do, she is so seriously grounded!

I have Ed the Computer Dude, otherwise known as Ava’s husband, working on extracting anything of Dalton’s story he can from my dead lap top.

On one hand, I’m in the 6th stage of my grief – reconstruction & working through, and I don’t really want to give hope any energy. 

But, it would be foolish not to try. 

I’m trying to coax myself into sitting on the floor with my stack of sticky notes and working out the plot line all over again.  To accomplish that I really need my Sisters and a pitcher of martinis. 

Tomorrow I’m going to Walgreens and I’m buying a big piece of poster board and I’m gonna get the whole thing mastered.  I just really, really, really hate to redo all that work.

And you know – here’s the rub.  As I was rereading the first 11 chapters, I was fairly unhappy with it.  There was a lot I wanted to change and the writing wasn’t as good as I know it can be.  But the missing nine chapters that I can’t reread – somehow in my mind, those lost chapters were the best nine chapters I’ve ever written.  Probably didn’t need any editing at all.

I love being delusional.

This came from one of my writer friends.  She did not write it and unfortunately, I’m not able to give credit where credit is due.  Enjoy.  It’s funny and scarily true.

There is this thing currently going around tumblr about why dating a writer is good. I think it’s nice that this thing is going around, because I like writers, and lots of us could use more dates. As a writer who has dated people, though — including other writers — I would like to offer some correctives to this list.
The items in bold are the alleged reasons to date a writer. I have replaced the original commentary with my bleak corrective, in lightface.

1. Writers will romance you with words. We probably won’t. We write for ourselves or for money and by the time we’re done we’re sick of it. If we have to write you something there’s a good chance it’ll take us two days and we’ll be really snippy and grumpy about the process.
2. Writers will write about you. You don’t want this. Trust me.
3. Writers will take you to interesting events. No. We will not. We are busy writing. Leave us alone about these “interesting events.” I know one person who dates a terrific writer. He goes out alone. She is busy writing.
4. Writers will remind you that money doesn’t matter so much. Yes. We will do this by borrowing money from you. Constantly.
5. Writers will acknowledge you and dedicate things to you. A better way to ensure this would be to become an agent. That way you’d actually make money off of talking people through their neuroses.
6. Writers will offer you an interesting perspective on things. Yes. Constantly. While you’re trying to watch TV or take a shower. You will have to listen to observations all day long, in addition to being asked to read the observations we wrote about when you were at work and unavailable for bothering. It will be almost as annoying as dating a stand-up comedian, except if you don’t find these observations scintillating we will think you’re dumb, instead of uptight.
7. Writers are smart. The moment you realize this is not true, your relationship with a writer will develop a significant problem.
8. Writers are really passionate. About writing. Not necessarily about you. Are you writing?
9. Writers can think through their feelings. So don’t start an argument unless you’re ready for a very, very lengthy explication of our position, our feelings about your position, and what scenes from our recent fiction the whole thing is reminding us of.
10. Writers enjoy their solitude. So get lost, will you?
11. Writers are creative. This is why we have such good reasons why you should lend us $300 and/or leave us alone, we’re writing.
12. Writers wear their hearts on their sleeves. Serious advice: if you meet a writer who’s actually demonstrative, be careful.
13. Writers will teach you cool new words. This is possibly true! We may also expect you to remember them, correct your grammar, and look pained after reading mundane notes you’ve left for us.
14. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for writing. Are you writing? Get in line, then.
15. Writers can find 1000 ways to tell you why they like you. By the 108th you’ll be pretty sure we’re just making them up for fun.
16. Writers communicate in a bunch of different ways. But mostly writing. Hope you don’t like talking on the phone — that shit is rough.
17. Writers can work from anywhere. So you might want to pass on that tandem bike rental when you’re on vacation.
18. Writers are surrounded by interesting people. Every last one of whom is imaginary.
19. Writers are easy to buy gifts for. This is true. Keep it in mind when your birthday rolls around, okay?
20. Writers are sexy. No argument. Some people think this about heroin addicts, too.

I’ve been working on book two of my proposed series and I just discovered chapters 12 – 18 are missing. 

Gone.  Vanished.  Poof. 

They are nowhere to be found.  Not in the external hard drive.  Not in any of the sent mail from any of my several email accounts.  Not lingering around in some misnamed folder.

The only chance I have is if some wizard can squeeze them out of the hard drive of my dead laptop.  I’m sure that’s where I wrote those particular chapters.

The idea of recreating them is very daunting and I honestly just want to cry.

7 chapters.  UGH.

From the hysterical people over at Shoebox

This episode of Simon’s Cat makes me laugh out loud.

The Sisters all belong to the national Romance Writers of America and the local chapter, Saguaro Romance Writers.  SRW is a fabulous group of women (and a few men) who love to write – romance, but not that genre exclusively.  I look forward to the monthly meetings with anticipation.  I’ve never belonged to a professional group more supportive than this one. 

Every meeting we have a raffle.  We all supply little things: First Editions of new releases, autographed ARCs (Advance Readers Copies) and the like.  Ava makes jewelery sometimes and takes it. 

In October, we have what’s called the Big Raffle.  It’s huge and the items donated are awesome.  Some of the published authors will provide critique time, amazing handmade items, and well, just fabulous stuff.  It all makes a ton of money for the organization that we use to bring in outstanding speakers each month.

For this upcoming Big Raffle, I decided the Quill Sisters needed to make Regency baskets for the raffle.  And like everything else, I’ve gone completely nuts.  It started out small, as these things always do, as one basket, but quickly grew into two.

Basket #1 is a Lady’s basket.  I knew what I wanted in it and became obsessed with finding the items.  I’ve drug Sassy and my mother all over this town looking for stuff.  We hit it big at an antique store where we found tatted lined hankies, an absolutely gorgeous pink teacup, and white gloves with embroidered roses.  I’ve also included my favorite Jane Austen, Sense & Sensibility (movie & book), various kinds of tea, some English Rose soap, and a cut-work wooden fan.  I even supplied an autographed book by one of my favorite NYT best selling Regency romance writers.  The basket is totally charming.

But then my downfall.  I thought how much fun it would be to do a gentleman’s basket, too.  Right?  Deep sigh.  The real problem is that I won’t admit defeat.  I know what I want and, come hell or high water, I’m gonna find it.  The idea of this basket was I wanted it to seem as if a Regency gentleman emptied his great-coat pockets and this was the stuff inside.  So, what would that be?  So far I’ve collected: various English toffees, a linen handkerchief with appropriately subdued embroidery, a silver flask, two tiny leather bound copies of Tennyson poems and English poems.  I’ve included a different book, autographed as well, by that certain author and a BBC version of Persuasion by Miss Austen.

It seems like I’m doing well, right?  Sounds done to you, does it?  NO!  I’m determined to find an old fashioned deck of cards, a brandy snifter and a small bottle of brandy, a snuff box, and several writing quills with ink. 

I’m totally insane.

Let’s start with the brandy snifter.  Don’t you think I could find like a million of those things in antique stores or the like?  I don’t want to go to Target and buy one because you can’t buy just one.  You must buy at least four.  I don’t need three extra damn glasses and four is totally overkill in the basket.  I can’t even find any open stock in the stemware departments of the department stores.

And the cards are giving me chest pains.  I want old fashioned playing cards – you’ve seen them in western movies – they don’t have numbers on them, just the symbols.  I live in the heart of the old west and one would think I could find them any ole place.  No.  I have toured every game store, antique store and mall in a 20 mile radius.  They are not here.  The people at the antique stores think I’m nuts because every time I think I’ve hit pay dirt and have them open a locked display cabinet, it turns out the cards have a World’s Fair logo or a damn airline or truck tire or something and I start whimpering.  One nice man suggested I go to Tombstone.  Dude! I do not have time to drive an hour there and an hour back just to get freakin’ cards. 

Of course, I’ve found all of these things on line, but I can’t justify paying $5.00 for something and then $12.00 more for shipping.  So I keep looking locally and keep those sites bookmarked for when I get desperate.

That means I’m still stalking antique stores and the like.  My Honey suggested I try the smoke shops for the snuff box.  On Saturday, I drug my children into a smoke shop.  Not my proudest mothering moment.  Go ahead and judge.  I’m certain I’m going to screw them up in ways that one visit to a smoke shop will totally eclipse so I’m not too worried about it.  In fact, I totally ignored the sign that stated, “You must be 18 to enter here”.  I figured they were with a parent so they were exempt.  After all, it’s not like I was taking them into a bar or something (ahem, Ed!).

The smell of patchouli oil and incense enveloped us as soon as we opened the door.  Of course, Sassy looked about her with utter disdain, while The Bandit was instantly fascinated.  He cruised around in front of the glass cabinets, peering inside and stared with fascination at the posters under the black light.  I talked to the guy behind the counter and he had a couple of ideas for me because, of course, he didn’t have any snuff boxes.

We walked back outside to get in the car with me grumbling about my obsessive compulsive drive.

“Mom, it smelled really good in there,” The Bandit noted.

Sassy wrinkled up her nose.  “I thought it stunk.”

“Nuh uh,” The Bandit argued.  “I really liked it.  The whole place was so totally cool.” 

So now I have to one to blame but myself for the little pot head he’s sure to become.

I’ve been chewing a lot of gum.  I do it when I’m stressed.  Or hungry.  That explains why I’m chewing a lot of it.  Anyway, I was driving along on the way to pick my kids up from school when it occurred to me the current wad of gum in my mouth was pretty used up.  I was going to toss it out my window, but there was a car right next to me in that lane.  So I unrolled the passenger window, cocked back my arm and threw it out the window. 

Only I didn’t.  It bounced off the door frame and landed on the carpet.

I played 4 or 5 years of softball as a kid and had a 200+ paper route and now I can’t even throw a piece of gum out a window less than two feet away.

It’s really appalling.

My Brother-the-plumber came by this morning.  He looked up at my ceiling and nodded.  “Yup,” he said.  Then he battled his way into the closet-of-doom and I heard, “Yep” again, only muffled this time.

“It’ll be about $300.00.  But you never know what I’ll find up there.  The rest could be just a mess, too.”

He was quoting the family price, remember.

He’s returning in the morning or Wednesday to tackle the job.  Until then, I’m going to be in the fetal position drinking wine directly out of the bottle.