I am posting today just to prove I’m not intimidated by Isabella’s last post.  Alright, maybe a little.  Alright, a lot.  I could never lie to you, Reader.  That post completely intimidated me.  My little “slices of life” are never THAT interesting.  Seriously, I’m switching physical therapists.

I’ve been considering letting the boy, we call him The Bandit, start naming my characters.  He has a real penchant for it.  He renamed all the horses at the County Fair.  If you ask me there are entirely too many horses named Scout and not enough Flashes and Floyds. 

The other reason that I haven’t been as forthcoming with posts is a really good one.  I have been writing at a record pace for the past week.  The most was eleven pages in one day and the least was four and a half.  My pirate story is coming along like gang busters, and I fully expect it to be complete by the end of the weekend.  It’s practically written itself which is a nice change from the normal routine of agonizing over one plot point or another.  So those of you who have been poking at me for more posts, you’re the same ones wrangling me for more pages.  For God’s sake, I’m typing as fast as I can.  You could always come over and babysit.  Yeah, you’re quiet now aren’t you.  Talk about chicken.

I spoke with a really great writer I know who was struggling with her “author” identity.  We talked through her struggle and ultimately decided that her work is what it is, but that it is not ONLY that.  There are a myriad of reasons why success is elusive.  But the reasons it shouldn’t be are internal prejudices, fear of success, and struggling to churn out what others expect of you.  Tolstoy said it eloquently in A Confession: “Force is force, matter is matter, will is will, the infinite is the infinite, nothing is nothing.”  Basically, it is what it is but there is always more.

I gotta get back to work.  Pirate ships are coming into port and maidens are teetering on the brink.  Someone has to be there to push her over.

Today was such a frustrating day.  I got so much work done on my pirate story yesterday, 9 pages and that is significant considering that I couldn’t start writing until the short people had gone to bed – and were really asleep, not faking – and that was after 9 o’clock.  So from 9:00 until 12:45 I knocked out 9 pages.  As it turns out, pirates are more fun than even I’d originally thought, and that’s saying something since I was pretty sure pirates were a lot of fun.  OK – that last sentence didn’t come out right.  Let me be perfectly clear – were talking 18th century, swashbuckling romantic buccaneers, not 19 year old Somali pirates of the 21 century.  That second group DOES NOT sound fun. 

Anyway, I had to go to bed before I got all the good stuff out of my head and on to paper,  and in the morning I had to go to work.  I still haven’t gotten back to the pirate and our damsel, but all day long I had trouble concentrating on my work because I was so involved with the stuff going on in my head.  Do the rest of you have this trouble?  All day long I yearned for my lap top and a coffee shop.  I must tell you, my office job doesn’t hold my attention nearly as well as pirate battles and love affairs.

One of the things I enjoy the most about writing is the research.  I know that I’ve mentioned this before in previous posts.  I really love the research.  I have a ton of reference books in my own private library, but the Internet is a real boon too.  I know that much of what you find on the net is not official but, still, the wealth of knowledge to be found is immense.  Currently, my setting of choice is historical so I am discovering all kinds of fascinating fact of days gone by.  My latest project is a pirate tale.  As I write this I have learned all about ships – something to this point I knew very little about.  I’ve learned all about Nassau and Jamaica, New Providence and Port Royal.  I’m getting refreshers on geography as well as ancient maritime law. 

If this whole author gig doesn’t work out I’m ready for Jeopardy.

So today was …..interesting.  I went to work today, but only because they make me go if I want to keep getting those paychecks.  A very long time friend of Isabella’s and mine work together – we’ll call her LTF (long time friend) and the two of us were going to meet Isabella for lunch.  I was waiting for the elevator, I work on 4, LTF works on 2.  The elevator opens and there was a herd of workmen in the elevator.  I offered to take the next one, but they all scooted back and assured me I’d fit.  I asked one of them to push the 2^nd floor button.  Being the smart alec that I am, I then felt compelled to explain that I had climbed the stairs like 19 times already that day and wasn’t going to do it one more time.  So that guy and I were laughing when, from behind me, I heard, “Hi, Amy.”  I turned around and ACK! It was my ex.  Really I’m not sure if ACK! sufficiently describes the feeling, does it?  The first thing you think is, “Oh, My GOD!” quickly followed up by “How do I look?”  I said, “Hi!” much more brightly than I felt and gave a perfunctory hug and crapped my pants.   LTF had told me when I came to work in this building that she has seen him here more than once because of the elevators.  You see, my ex is in the elevator union.  You never think it will happen to you.

You have all been there, I’m sure.  If you haven’t had this joy then you are either entirely too young or joined a nunnery after the first break-up.  And really, no matter how happy and in love you are now, this always throws you for a loop.  I called my mom from the car and told her who I’d just ridden the elevator with.  Her response was classic.  “It’s too bad you didn’t look good.”  Seriously?!  I didn’t tell her what I looked like.  Wasn’t it nice of my mom to just assume I looked dreadful?  Of course she protested that that wasn’t what she meant…..anyway.  We return from my freak-out at lunch and, about an hour later I have to go to the 2^nd floor again.  I decide to take the stairs, but I put on lip gloss for insurance.  You know, Reader, I really didn’t want to take the stairs back up.  It’s like 40 steps (read that while whiiiiiiiining).  So I decided to be brave.  Surely the workmen have all gone by now.  I hit the button and right on cue the doors slide open and there is a veritable sea of green work shirts. 

I’m telling you, Readers, I’m going have to start wearing cocktail dresses to work.

Ava is working on a really great idea as you may have read from her previous posts.  She sent over some stuff from it for Isabella and I to read and critique.  I am very excited to tell you that it is really good, her voice is fantastic and it’s very witty besides being hot!. 

And that is a great segue into today’s topic.   It’s not like any of the three of us are blushing virgins.  Nor are we prudes.  For crying out loud, we lived through the 80’s and heavy metal and college.  One of us is even from New Jersey (I kid!).  But putting those words down and writing those scenes can be intimidating, even for the low key scenes.  It’s not like we’re describing anything depraved for crying out loud.  Well not yet, but I worry about Isabella (hahahaha – again, I kid).  Anyway, there are really only so many euphemisms you can use before you run out and are only left with the cold, clinical ones or the ones that REALLY make you blush.  I think I certainly did alright with my love scenes but the whole time I was writing them I was blushing so fiercely I had to turn on the fan.  And then you wonder what people will think of you.  I mean my mother-in-law is going to read this for God’s sake. 

So I pose this question to those of you that write romance, or any novel with a love scene.  How did you get accustomed to it?  How did you get over the embarrassment?  Were you even embarrassed?  Should we just get therapy?

I am going to Hell.  I’m pretty sure. 

So I received a call from my husband today while I was at work.

“Hi, Lovey,” I’m always happy to hear from him at work.  “How are you?”

“Oh, I could be better,” he said softly

“Why?”

“Guess.” 

I don’t know about you, but I cringed at this.  I don’t want to guess.  Just tell me what disaster has befallen us because, as you might guess, my imagination is  crazy enough without being given a full leash.

So, dear Reader, sit back and try to envision this with your mind’s eye.  We live in the Southwestern desert where it is REALLY hot.  We have an above ground pool for the kids to swim and hang out in.  It’s not quite a “concrete pond” but, hey they don’t know they’re red-necks.  So my husband has been getting it ready the last two days: buying a new liner, some filter thingamajig, etc.  Also, the Cable Guy (CG) was here today.  Apparently our cable wires are like five thousand years old and not capable of sustaining television and Internet, which explains at least some of the reasons why I frequently want to throw my laptop against the wall.  There are other reasons, but that’s a post for another time. 

On this day, CG was there running new cable through the house, Hubby is working on the pool, and Idiot Dog was locked in the girl’s room howling like the damn fool he is.  Hubby has the pool filled and is placing the last bit of the top rail, the finishing touch.  CG is around the corner of the house out of sight when he hears “BAM” and thinks to himself, “No, it can’t be.”  Sure enough, when CG peeks around the corner to see, the pool has exploded. Four thousand gallons of water gushing out of the pool, banking off the block wall and rushing through the swing set and over the slide, filling the back yard to three inches deep.  It burst right where Hubby was standing and trapped his leg under the metal wall and he was stuck there until the water emptied enough that he could wrench it free. 

Oh, Readers, I am so ashamed to admit that I laughed.  I laughed a lot.  The picture of the wall of water taking out my back yard, of Hubby stuck there as the door mat floated by, of the cable guy laughing until his stomach hurt.  I am a horrible wife.  Hubby’s leg is quite sore though not badly damaged, of course all the wasted water is a crime, and the money spent is a bummer.  But, seriously Readers, I will be giggling about that for days if not weeks and Hubby will probably list it in the Divorce Decree, but I defy you to not picture it and find amusement. 

And by the way, the Idiot Dog is very happy to be living in a swamp.