Confessions of a writer

Don't MESS with the DRESS!

2010-06-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

I write fiction, but sometimes, true stories are better. :)

This morning I’m sitting in the school parking lot waiting to pick up my seven-year-old from her summer classes, when all of a sudden, I spot her marching towards the car. She is furious. I mean, I’ve never seen her so mad, and, trust me, the girl is known for a short fuse, so this is really, really saying something. She jumps in the car and slams the door shut. Before I can even ask what is wrong, she’s telling me. “MOM! A boy KISSED me today!”

And I’m like, “WHAT? He kissed you? WHO kissed you?”

And she’s like, “We were working on our science projects and he messed mine up so I yelled at him and he kissed me right on the lips! And mom, I slapped him.”

And I’m like, “You SLAPPED him?”

And she shrugs and says, “You told me to. Remember? You said if a boy kisses me before I’m twenty-five I’m supposed to slap him!”

Oh. Bless her heart. Of course, I didn’t mean for her to slap other little seven-year-olds. I was referring to horny teenage boys. But I don’t want to contradict myself right away so I say, “What happened after you slapped him?”

She shrugs again, her anger waning and says, “I said ‘Don’t MESS with the DRESS!’”

I burst out laughing and say, “You actually said that?”

She nods very seriously and says, “Yep. I did. It’s from that movie, Mom, the Barbie movie, but I was wearing a dress today, so I figured it worked.”

And I’m nodding because, seriously, it did work. “What happened then?” I ask.

“Well, then he got in trouble. The teacher yelled at him and he had to go to the principal’s office!”

And I’m thinking, Oh, that poor, little boy! Come on people, it was just a kiss!

Then Abbie says, “But, guess what? I didn’t get in trouble at all. I told the teacher that YOU said I was supposed to slap boys if they tried to kiss me and she agreed, and Mom, I think she was laughing.”

And I smile and say, “Abbie, I’m sure she was.”

The end.

Our Characters

2010-03-11T16:39:00.000-08:00

As writers, we think a lot about our characters. Before we write, we have to understand their likes and dislikes; we have to know their personalities, and sometimes, we have to accept their flaws. Quite literally, we have to be in their heads. This might sound strange if you haven’t written fiction, but if you have, you understand. You get it.

I think that every writer has his or her own way of discovering their characters, and I believe this process is very personal and unique to each individual. But, in the end, the characters keep the story moving and if you, as the author, don’t know them, the words you write are wasted.

Before I start any project, I spend about a month thinking of the story and more importantly, the characters. I take this time to play with them. I’ll watch scenes in my head like a movie. Then I’ll rewind and play the scene again, except I change it. Most of the time when I start the actual writing I know my characters really, really well. But sometimes (like last week) I get hung up. I come to a scene and I can’t write it. I’ll try a few hundred words and erase them, and then I try again. Finally, I take a step back.

I go on a dry spell. Some people might call it writer’s block, and they’re probably right. But when I think back over the times I’ve been “blocked” I realize that it’s usually because I have no idea how my character should react to the scene. I know what scenes are going to happen; I already have my road map. But is my character happy or sad? Does she feel like crying? Is she really angry or just slightly put out? Is she scared? How should she respond to what I am putting her through?

The fact is, I have the stage, but if I’m not in my character’s heads…nothing is going to work.

And then the dry spell. You try to push ahead but nothing comes out right. Sometimes I’ll just keeping pushing, trying to get through it, other times I step away and let it come to me. And stepping back usually works better than pushing through. I’ll tell you why. Because sometimes, your characters might surprise you. And if you are so busy trying to push them through the scene, you won’t realize this.

Story time.

A few days ago, I was outside in my front yard, watching my kids play. It was sort of, kind of nice weather for Utah, so a few of our neighbors were outside, trying to enjoy it as well. I was watching my kids riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk, when suddenly, I heard a sort of howling sound. The sound was really loud (probably sounded even louder on our quite street) and it sounded like a dying dog. Kind of.

Confused and a little bit worried for the safety of my children, I searched the street up and down. There was nothing. The howling continued, and a few minutes later, my neighbor who lives across the street came around from the back of her house with her dog in tow.

Okay, I thought. It IS a dog. I relaxed. The thing might have been dying, but at least he was on a leash. Just as I was about to dive back into my book, the howling started again. I looked back up, slightly annoyed, and thought, “Put the thing out of his misery!”

And that’s when I got the shock of my life. It wasn’t the dog that was making those horrible sounds. It was my neighbor, the person walking the dog. My quiet, barely-will-wave-to-you, never smiles EVER, neighbor. I took a closer look and realized that she was carrying a walkman. And she was wearing earphones.

I don’t know what she was singing along to—country western?—but she was belting it out louder than I belt out Lady GaGa in my car. And that’s saying something.

I am 100% positive that her music was up so loud that she didn’t realize how loud she was singing. I am sure she thought she was singing barely above a whisper. I. am. sure.

While at least one of my sisters would gladly serenade the whole neighborhood with poor musical abilities, this woman would not.

Trust me.

So, my first impression of the situation was one of horror. I was embarrassed to be outside. I felt awful for the woman. I wanted to run up and tap her on the shoulder and let her know that she was really howling down the street, not singing quietly to the wind. But then I smiled.

Since I’ve lived here, I’ve thought that I had this neighbor figured out. I’ve called her grumpy, mean, cranky, and just about every other synonym I can think of. And although I’ve never said it, I categorized her as a person who not only doesn’t know how to have fun, but also despises it.

Well, let me tell you—the woman knows how to have fun. She might not be able to carry a tune. She might not have any musical ability period, but she was most definitely having fun walking her dog and singing. And while I have still never seen her come close to smiling or being friendly in anyway, I have realized that my rash judgment was exactly that. Rash.

And this is when another thought hit me. Maybe I don’t know my characters as well as I think. Maybe they have their own secrets, and maybe I shouldn’t categorize them right away, either. Maybe the whole week I was “blocked” wasn’t for nothing. Perhaps, it was a time for understanding who my character REALLY was.

Today I finally figured my character out. I wrote a thousand words without pausing because I knew why she was doing what and I knew how she was feeling and I understood why she was going into that next scene.

So next time you experience a dry spell, take a step back. Your character might surprise you.

As for my neighbor? (grins) Well…I’ll never look at her the same way again.

I suck at spin class!

2010-02-09T21:12:00.000-08:00

So. My ass is on fire. Literally, fire. And I know I should be happy about this but I can't sit down and I can't stand up and I have a feeling that when I finally decide to use the bathroom it's going to kill me.

I know, I know...I'm posting something and it hasn't been three months of dead time. Tonight is just a crazy, sore ass kind of night. Maybe I'll post something else after I do a billion sit-ups.

I joined 24 Hour Fitness yesterday and I love it! Well, not right now, but I'm sure in a few days, after the initail soreness has left, I'll love it.

I love going to the gym, and it's been a long time. I've been doing workout DVD's on my T.V. for way too long. The last time I had a gym membership was before I got pregnant with my almost seven-year-old daughter. So after seven years of doing those monotonous DVD's (and I do still love them in an odd sort of way) I am back in the gym.

I took my first spin class and a guy twice my age kicked my trash and made me look bad. Still not happy about that. To make a long story short--I suucckkked at spin class. I looked like someone coming out of a grave when I left. Everyone else was smiling and giving each other high fives, but me? I was crawling across the floor, yelling horrible things at the instructor. Honestly, I still don't know how I got off that damn bike.

Anyway, my friend sent me this video, and I think it is soooo good that I just have to repost it. It is geared towards writers, but I think it applies to anything in life. Even spin class. And she puts it so well! Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nyhv80HDSj4&feature=player_embedded

I am ridiculous

2010-02-06T08:56:00.000-08:00

Apparently, I am ridiculous. I learned this from my husband about thirty minutes ago. What a wonderful morning.

Before you all get too judgmental, I have to take the blame for his words a little bit. You see, we have these crazy fights about every three an half hours, and while some of you think that sounds scary, I assure you, it’s not. Quite honestly, it makes my life interesting. Example:

BRAD: I guess I’ll go iron my pants now…?

ME: Sounds like a good plan, but why did you feel the need to tell me? Are you suggesting that because I am your wife it should be me ironing your pants? Because, seriously, hun, it’s like 2010, not 1953.

BRAD: I wasn’t suggesting anything.

ME: And I do ALL the laundry all week. I mean, I wash it and dry it and fold it. (Side note: I HATE laundry. If I had a maid—she’d be doing that, and I’d be scrubbing the bathrooms.)

BRAD: It’s just my mom always ironed my clothes….

ME: Are you comparing me to your mother? Honestly?

BRAD: No…I’m just telling you where I’m coming from….

ME: Ah-ha! So you’re still living in 1953. Do you want me to wear an apron and pearl earrings, too.

And after a few more spars back and forth, the pants are forgotten and we’re doing things that only two people who are married should do.

I’m just telling you how it is. And, really, it makes for an exciting life…most of the time. Occasionally, though, our banter gets out of control. I haven’t figured out why exactly, but it seems that hormones, lack of sleep, empty stomachs, full bladders, and over-excitement all play major roles.

Although last night, when Brad came home from an all day ski trip none of those factors were present. My hormones were mild, I wasn’t tired, my stomach was full, my bladder was empty, and I was anything but excited. So, I don’t exactly know why I exploded when Brad announced that a girl had asked if he was single. Normally, I would have laughed and said something to the effect of, “You? Single? Didn’t they see the trapped and helpless look in your eyes that just screams marriage???”

But for some reason, I didn’t laugh. Instead, I gave him a stark, cold stare and said, “Girl?”

And he said, (with a lopsided grin I might add) “Yeah, Thereon (his single work buddy) invited some of his friends (single girls) to ski, too.

And I was like, “Oh.”

And then he strolled off to bed, falling asleep within 25.2 seconds—a guiltless sleep. And I stood in the kitchen, angry. I wasn’t really worried about “the girl” but I WAS feeling a little bit pissed that I had been the one to stay home all day and watch our daughters while he went off and apparently got hit on by some ski tramp.

And again, I have no reason to complain. Only a month ago, Brad watched the girls while I went off with my sisters for a weekend. And last Saturday, I spend all afternoon shopping, while he made Kraft Mac and Cheese and watched Mickey Mouse. I have NO ROOM to complain. He is an awesome dad. Really. And besides the fact that we both hate laundry, he always helps me with the dishes after dinner, most mornings he makes our bed, and when I was stuck at the hospital with my sister this week, he cleaned the whole house, did homework with our six-year-old, made the girls top-roman with mint chocolate-chip ice cream (their favorite), and tucked them in bed. See. I have no room. But last night, this didn’t matter. Last night, I felt like the poor, picked on one in the relationship.

I finally went to bed, but the thought of Brad hanging out with a bunch of cute, young single women festered in my head all night long, and when I woke up this morning, I was like a hurricane. A ball of fire. With the eyes of the devil, I marched into the kitchen, where brad was eating a bowl of cereal and said, “So, you basically went on a double date yesterday.”

And Brad blinked in surprise and laughed and said, “No.”

And I said, “But you went skiing with a bunch of single girls?”

And he shrugged and said, “They were Thereon’s friends. I was the fifth wheel.”

And I muttered, “The fifth wheel that got hit on…”

And this is where it really came to a head. This was the moment where I lost it. Because this was the moment when Brad laughed and said, “Are you serious? You’re being ridiculous.”

And deep down, I KNEW I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop myself. So I continued to say a bunch of things that I won’t repeat here. (I might not be a red-head, but I have the temper.)

And after I vented, he said something like, “Wow. You’ve got to be kidding me. You are acting so immature. You’re being stupid.”

And this is when I deflated. All my unwarranted anger left and suddenly, I felt ridiculous. And stupid. And immature. Only not just over the fight that I had egged on. About everything.

So now I’m sitting on the counter in my pajamas feeling like the biggest loser ever. And I know he didn’t really mean it, just like I didn’t really mean anything I said. But now that doesn’t matter. For the rest of the day, I am a ridiculous human being.

Okay, so maybe my hormones aren’t as steady as I previously thought…

The Holidays Are Over...

2010-01-03T17:36:00.000-08:00

The holidays are officially over. There are no more excuses for over-eating, over-sleeping, over-spending, and under-doing everything else. It is back to the grind. Back to the dull grey skies of January, with not even the excuse of Christmas Lights to brighten the ugly, disgusting look of winter.

Do I sound dramatic?

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter—for the month of December. After that, I want the warm sun, the green grass, and an excuse to wear shorts to an amusement park. But that’s not going to happen for the next five months! It’s going to be ugly and cold and dark.

That’s why two of my sisters and I have planned to run away to St. George, Utah this coming weekend. It’s not going to be Hawaii, but hopefully it will be better than our current, colorless world.

And I have a lot of fun getting away with my sisters. Three of us decided to start this tradition last year when we took off to Grand Junction, Colorado to go to a wedding. Someday, I hope that ALL of my sisters can come. Some are too young and one just had a cute, four-month-old baby that needs her. But someday, I hope all six of us can go away together.

There is something special about sisters. They get you in a way that not many people can. Maybe that’s because they’ve seen you at seven o’ clock in the morning when all your hair is standing straight up and you’re wearing your retainer and an ugly bathrobe. I’m not kidding around here; sharing the same toothpaste does something to you.

Right now, I am lucky enough to have all my sisters live within five minutes of me. I realize this probably won’t last, but I hope that I can always have close relationships with my sisters.

Anyway, this girl’s weekend comes at the perfect time. I’ve finished a second draft of my middle-grade book, and it’s getting reviewed right now, so it’s the perfect time to set it aside and take in a breath of life and hopefully (cross my fingers) sun. The truth is, I will be writing like a maniac until the moment we leave and then my sisters will have to hide my laptop, so I won’t sanction myself to the hotel room, looking like a mad scientist as I punch away at my keyboard.

We have all kinds of stuff planned for our get-a-way. We booked a hotel with an indoor pool—that was a must. And you can’t go to southern Utah without doing a little hiking. Little, not a lot. None of us is what you call out-doorsy. We like make-up and clean hair and shopping, and we’re not afraid to admit it. Why be a girl, if you can’t have fun? And we intend to have A LOT of, good, wholesome, slightly evil fun.

So, if any of you out there are feeling the lackluster blues of January, I suggest you take a little piece of advice from the book of Meagan’s Rules to Live by to Make it Through the Month Of January.

This will be on bookshelves soon, guaranteed. And yes, I realize the title needs help.

First: Get moving. Any form of exercise will suffice, as long as you are moving consistently for the next month, preferably the rest of your life.

Second: Buy yourself a new tube of lipstick or change your hairstyle or get a new pair of pants. Or do all three like I did... Obviously, I’m speaking to the women here, but guys, you get the idea. Change up the deodorant you’re using, take a different way home from work. One simple change can go a long way.

Third: Get out of your rut. Everyone has one. If you can’t get away for the weekend with your sisters, then get out for a night. Change your atmosphere. Change your routine. I highly recommend going to a Salsa Club or taking your favorite book with you to the tub.

Anyway, that’s my advice for the month of January. And to all you people who live in Florida, California, Hawaii, or any other place that is warmer than 30 degrees—I hate you.

I'm a good person that does bad, bad things...

2009-12-01T15:37:00.000-08:00

I’m the world’s worst blogger. I already know this, so don’t get your pantyhose in a knot. The problem with blogging is I have to feel inspired when I write. If I’m not inspired, I don’t write. It’s as simple as that. So…yeah…my blogs come far and few in between.

That’s not to say that I haven’t been writing. Most of the time, the book I am working on inspires me more than the mundane in and outs of my daily life. In fact, I am happy to report that my middle-grade book is nearly completed—at least the first draft. I know, I know…hold the applause.

So, I have a confession, and it’s so horribly awful that for some reason, it inspired me to take time away from my book and write this blog instead.

Yesterday was my friend’s birthday, and about a week ago, she asked if I would go see a movie with her. Last night, I decided that before the movie I needed to get her a caramel apple from The Chocolate Factory. You know, the kind they first roll in caramel, and then in chocolate, or in crushed candy bars, or cookies, or anything else that adds about two thousand calories to your green healthy snack. These apples are amazing. Truly. And they make the perfect birthday gift if you only have five dollars to spend.

So at 4:30 in the afternoon, I decided that I absolutely had to get one of these forbidden fruits for my friend. I was in the middle of making an early dinner because I had to be to her house by 6:15 to make it to the movie in time, but I quickly decided that if I left the house at 5:30, I would have plenty of time to drive to chocolate heaven before picking her up.

At 5:30 I got in the car, cranked up the music, because that’s what I do, and jumped on the highway. I was singing as loud as I possibly could to Taylor Swift’s Love Story when I realized that I was stuck in commuter traffic. No problem. I had a full half an hour, plenty of time. To distract myself from the fact that minutes were ticking by, I sang even louder. At one point, I reached for an invisible microphone and the guy in the car next to me had a good laugh. That’s right. I’m a freak.

By the time I got to Orem it was 5:55. I had twenty minutes to pick up the apple and get clear across town. My mission was starting to look hopeless, and I began to tap my foot. By the way, this is a bad sign. It’s a habit I picked up from my mom. Whenever she gets angry, she starts tapping her foot to this really scary rhythm that only she can hear. To the rest of us who know her well, it is like a terrible warning, one of impending doom. Prepare yourselves, the red-head is about to explode! Oh, just kidding…it isn’t that bad. (And I have to say that because I know she is going to read this.)

Anyway, my foot was tapping, my hands were sweating, and I had stopped singing so that I could yell obscenities at the car in front of me. That’s right. The commuter traffic was completely their fault!

Now, I know you all think that I am confessing to road rage here. Nope. That is nothing. I get road rage all the time. Freaking out on the cars around me is just how I drive. It’s in my genes. Another gift from my mom. No, compared to what else I did last night, that makes me look like a saint.

By the time I pulled into the right parking lot it was 6:01 and I was thinking something similar to this: All right, Meagan. Park, run, grab, pay, run, drive. You can be out of the parking lot in one minute flat. Well, there was a problem with that thought process. The parking lot was packed. There were NO parking spaces. Okay, well, technically there were some spots available, at the end of the parking lot, about a mile away. It would take me a whole five minutes just to get to the store to by the apple. And I was OUT of time! I didn’t HAVE five minutes! I didn’t have ANY minutes!

At this point, I had stopped yelling and had started to cry. It was really ugly. The tears. The sweat. The banging of my head against the steering wheel. I will spare you the rest of the details.

So I was driving past the store, preparing myself to drive to the end of the parking lot, hike up my skirt, and run, when I spotted an open parking space right in front of the store! It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was for the handicapped.

I stopped the car; my whole life flashed before me. I looked in the rearview mirror. I had about five seconds to make a decision. It was wrong. I knew it was. It was illegal and rude. But it was right there! I would be in that store for less than sixty seconds. SIXTY FREAKIN’ SECONDS! And I was doing it for a good reason, right? I was buying a birthday present! That had to count for something, right? Right? Right? RIGHT?

About right then the angel on my other shoulder spoke up.

No, Meagan. Right now, you are doing what you do best. You are justifying all the bad things you do, like when you ate all that pie last week. Just because it was Thanksgiving doesn’t mean it was right to eat a whole pie by yourself, with whipped cream. It’s the small moments in life that define you. You can prove yourself right here, right now. Just drive away. Do the right thing.

This was the last thought I had, and then, God help me, I swung into that spot faster than I ate that pie last week. I jumped out of the car and ran in the store. I picked an apple and paid for it, all the while, keeping an eye out for someone wearing a uniform and holding a pair of handcuffs. I was in that store less than a minute. Forty-five seconds, tops. Apple in hand, I ran back to my car and pulled out of the prohibited space. And, almost immediately, I started praying for forgiveness.

That’s right. I broke the law for a stupid, scrumptious apple. Last night I traded my soul for a convenient parking spot. Disgusting.

I believe in bad karma. Mine is coming. Oh, it’s coming. Any person who steals a spot reserved for the handicapped deserves it. It’s like taking candy from babies, something else I’ve been known to do.

And if it was any of your birthdays, I’d do it again. I love you that much. Anyway, I hope my confession counts for something. I’m risking everything by writing it. My friend’s husband is a cop, and I don’t know if he could arrest me if he read this. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read this, so I think I’m safe.

And just so you all know, I was only two minutes late picking up my friend.

Don't take yourself too seriously!

2009-10-23T18:34:00.000-07:00

Well…it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

It’s not that I haven’t had stuff to write about it. My life is full of all kinds of lovely little stories that would, if given the chance, make you want to pee your pants.

Like, a few weeks ago when I bought my first pair of skinny jeans. Seriously, skinny jeans have scared the hell out of me ever since they made their debut.

I was like, “Where does my butt go? Oh, yeah? There? Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me….” or “But you can see the shape of my entire thigh!” or “Seriously, the zipper is like an inch and a half long!”

Let’s just say that I’ve avoided them for a while. But when I got to see how cute my mom and sisters looked in their skinny, totally-in-style jeans, I was like, “Hmm…maybe I can get away with wearing that, too. Maybe if I wear boots with them it will help balance out the size of my ass….”

So, after calling my sister and getting the inside scoop, I strutted into Pac-Sun and said, “Hey, I need some of those skinny jeans (in this particular size)!” And the really cute sales girl was like, “Let me get those for you! And, by the way, your daughter is sooo cute!”

And in my head, I was thinking, “Of course, she is, but kudos to you! You just got some major brownie points, and I’ll probably buy these pants, even if I don’t like them!”

In two minutes flat, I was in the dressing room, pulling off my totally-not-in-style, boot-cut jeans and pulling on these really skinny things that stuck to my legs like wallpaper. Literally, I had to jump up and down to get them on, but after I got them up, I was like, “Damn, these don’t look all that bad! I’m feeling kinda sexy!” And my daughter, Charlie—who is no doubt going to grow up and become a fashion genius—stood on the bench and said, “You look bootiful!” And, seriously, at this point, I was thinking it was a go.

Then the doubt started to loom. First concern, could I even sit down? I quickly sat on the bench. Okay…well, not without my butt crack showing. Shit. (I’m sure you’ve all said it in your head, too. I certainly didn’t say it out loud with my three-year-old daughter staring up at me.) Then I realized that I hadn’t even done up the button, which was, by the way, very south of my bellybutton. No big deal. I pulled up the zipper and…oh, yeah, that was not gonna work….

Now, honestly, I know it sounds like I’m five hundred pounds here, but I assure you, I’m not even close to that. I wear a size six. Okay, it’s not a skinny, model-like number, but I’m sure J. LO wears something close. (I use her as an example cause we are similar in the pocket area.)

So, I called over the cute, kisser-upper sales girl and explained my predicament.

I was like, “Hey, sweetheart, I have a problem.”

And she was like, “What’s that?”

And I was like, “Well…I’ve got a fat ass. Could you please bring me these in the next size up?”

And, honest to God, her eyes popped out of her head, and she started laughing so hard that she had to hold onto the wall to keep from collapsing on the floor. I’m almost positive she didn’t expect me to be that frank.

And I was thinking, “Hey, my big rear end just made some one laugh! How cool is that?” But, then she assured me that their sizes run small and she could definitely get me the next size up. I’m telling you, this girl was good. First, she tells me that she’s never seen a more beautiful three-year-old in her life, and then she feeds my ego by lying to me!

So, before I knew it, I was pulling on a size bigger, and, I swear on the goldfish that I accidentally froze, they were amazing. And I started jumping up and down and posing in the mirror like I was a model for Vogue, and Charlie started clapping, and I just know there has never been a bigger party at Pac-Sun.

I know this story is long. Sorry. I can’t help it. But I promise, it happened just like this.

So, I pulled the pants off and marched up to the register and the sales girl, who should seriously consider selling something more profitable than pants, told me that if I buy one I get another pair half off.

Well, sweet music! Get me these in black!

I walked out of that store with two pairs of skinny jeans, a huge smile, and a daughter that really, really, really had to go pee.

I was driving home when I decided to call my mom and tell her that I had completely grown up and bought my first pair of…well, by now you get it. Being the wonderful mother she is, she told me to come over to her house and show her how the first masterpiece she created in her belly looks in sexy, skinny jeans.

Well, why miss an opportunity to show off? I pulled in her driveway, and, on my way up to the front door, met the guy that was putting a fence around her house. He seemed nice, but let’s face it, I wasn’t paying him much attention.

I entered the house and pulled the miracle pants out of the bag, and my mom was all like, “Go try them on!”

And I was all like, “Okay!!!”

I ran down to my sister’s bedroom (the one where the dresser is the floor) and pulled on the pants. On my way out of the room, I checked myself out in the mirror and grinned. Then I started up the stairs.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I have a big mouth. Not just big. Huge. All of my brothers and sisters can back me up here. So, as I entered the front room, I yelled out, “WELL! MY FAT ASS LOOKS…”

That’s right. Dot. Dot. Dot.

Because I never got to the looks amazing part. Instead, I realized that my mom had the front door open and her and the fence guy were staring at me with huge eyes and two not-so-subtle grins. My mom started laughing, and I was like, “Hey, let me just back on out of this room and stick my head on fire. Oh wait, it’s already on fire!”

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I announced that I had a fat ass to the fence guy.

Please, tell me the same thing has happened to all of you.

That's okay. I've learned not to take myself too seriously. You have to laugh at yourself. You have to look at the positives. Like today when I got my long-awaited response from an agent that asked to see some of my manuscript. All I could see as I read the email was, "your manuscript’s obvious merits" and "clearly saw enough in your writing to request a closer look". I didn't see the part where she said she couldn't represent me because her client list was too full and the bad economy made it hard to take on new clients. I just didn't see that part.

I thought it would sting a little more, but honestly, I'm so happy tonight. Sure, I bet I would have been happier if she had wrote back and told me that she absolutely had to take me on as a client, but like I said, for some crazy reason, I am so excited to keep going.

Tonight, I'm going to read a good book. Tomorrow, I'm going to write one....

(Oh, and by the way, it doesn't matter what size you get in those jeans. You have to wear a belt if you don't want to show the world your crack!)

Story Time

2009-09-28T21:28:00.000-07:00

So, my weekend was interesting. I like to refer to it as the weekend from hell.

It all started on Thursday night at 9:45. I was working when I heard my baby, Charlie, cry. I went to her room—expecting that she needed a drink or something—and instead found her covered in her own throw up.

Immediately, I went into mother mode. It took me thirty seconds to strip her bed, undress her, and put her in the bath. And when vomit got on my hands, I bravely kept thinking: don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, and finished the job.

Breathing through my mouth, I proceeded to rinse out the chewed up sausage and pancake dinner from Charlie’s hair. While I was completing the job, I asked, Brad, my truly supportive husband, to get her soiled bedding in the washing machine. He graciously agreed and immediately started the load, smiling like he had just agreed to take a bullet for me. Which, in all honesty, he had.

The night didn’t improve. Every fifteen minutes Charlie was crying, and I was jumping out of bed, trying to stick a bowl in front of her before the contents of her stomach landed else where. And let’s just say… I was doing laundry all night long.

At 11:30, after she had spewed all over a make shift bed on the floor, I went to start another load. I was switching the laundry when I noticed chunks of washed out sausage dropping from the wet sheets and clinging to the inside of the washing machine. Sick, I know. But at the time all I could think was—Brad, you idiot! What had he been thinking? That the washer would magically suck up all the pieces of half-digested food? Just so everyone is clear, it doesn’t.

So, I barged into Brad’s office and told him that he needed to go clean out the washer so I could start another load. Harsh, I know, but honestly, it was his fault, and there is only so much gross stuff a girl can handle. While Brad was cleaning out the washer—and yes, I watched—he said, “Well, at least we know she’s getting enough to eat.”

That did us both in, and I started laughing so hard I thought I was going to hurl, too. Late night jokes are the best. They don’t even have to be funny.

Fast forward to just after midnight. Charlie was still getting up every ten to fifteen minutes, and I had just realized that this was going to be a very long night. In desperation, I asked Brad to run to the nearest gas station and buy a bottle of 7-up, hoping that it would help calm her stomach so we could both get some sleep.

When he gave me a look that said something like “You have got to be kidding me” I simply smiled and said, “Sorry, dude. That’s how it works. I get to hold the puke bowl; you get to make midnight 7-up runs. Being a parent is great, isn’t it? And, by the way, I know I’m going to be the one who is up all night with this sick little girl while you pretend to be so deeply asleep that the end of the world wouldn’t wake you, so please get your ass to the store!”

And, you know what? He ran right out the door.

The night continued like that, and by morning, I had been puked on twice, had washed three sets of bedding, and five pairs of pajamas. Looking back on it…the 7-up wasn’t such a good idea after all.

All in all, I probably got a whole two hours of interrupted sleep. Brad, however, looked quite comfortable and very much asleep on the couch the next morning. I almost poured a glass of ice water on him. Almost.

The sad thing is… that night was the highlight of my weekend.

Quick Confession

2009-09-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

Quick confession time: I love Halloween.

No. It’s worse than that. I am a Halloween junkie.

I worship everything about it. The smells. The sounds. Getting to dress in a questionable costume. It’s all beautiful.

I try to be good. Hold off until the end of September. But today I went to Target to get my three-year-old daughter some pajamas, and I knew I was in trouble when I spotted a pair of long underwear covered in witches and black cats. I had to get them. It didn’t matter that she’d only be wearing them for two months. I couldn’t come home with Halloween pajamas for one daughter and not the other one…so I got some for my six-year-old, too. Skulls wearing pink bows. She’ll love them.

I could’ve stopped there. I should’ve stopped there. But I do not call myself a Halloween junkie lightly. When I walked by a black shower curtain with skeletons and a matching bath rug—I almost cried. Then I threw them in the cart. There was an end to my insanity. I ran the other way when I saw the Halloween dishes. Spider web plates, skull tumblers, and little black bowls. Well, all right…if I’m being completely honest, I stacked them in my cart and almost drove off. Then I remembered that I wasn’t a millionaire, and I put them back. THEN I ran away.

I remember the first Halloween decoration I bought like it was yesterday. It’s a little sign that reads “Just call me wicked”. It cracks me up. Some people out there probably just said, “There’s your sign, Meagan. There’s your sign….” And if they’re laughing, I’m laughing with them. I claim to be nothing but human.

Back to decorations. I buy them. I hate craft projects, and I don’t DO cute. No painting, sewing, bead work, cross-stitch, or anything else that requires more than a minute of my time. I tried the whole craft thing once, but I’m bad at it.

I try to keep my decorating classy. Black roses on the table. A scarecrow. Some eyeballs in a jar. You know, just the necessities.

I think my obsession with Halloween stems from always wanting to be in another world, hence the writing. Not that I don’t love my life. I do. But most days my thoughts are somewhere else, leaving my body to stare into space. A forest. The ocean. A world only I know….

So, after I got home from the store today, I started setting up. I know it’s only September seventeenth. Very well aware of that fact, and yet…I simply don’t care. If it was up to me, everyone would dress up the entire month and what happened on Halloween night, would stay on Halloween night. All bets are off.

For any of you God-fearing people out there, say a prayer for me. My husband will be home tonight, and he’s in for a bit of a shock. I’m a tiny bit worried. But if he can survive the bat cave I made last year, he should be able to handle a shower curtain. I hope.

Dancing with the Stars Letter

2009-09-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve been busy. Really busy. It has been one of those weeks when life just sweeps you up in its troubles, joys, and time consuming expectations. I’ve chosen to enter several writing contests, on top of everything else, but I’ve enjoyed it. If nothing else, I made myself laugh. I don’t know if this is good or bad. Hmm…

Anyway, one of the projects I decided to take on this week was writing the show, Dancing with the Stars and begging them to invite Jon Schmidt to play his composition of Taylor Swift’s Love Story meets Cold Play’s Viva La Vida. A week ago, my dad showed me this video on YouTube, and I’ve been a bit obsessed with it ever since. If you haven’t seen it, click on the link below and if you have seen it, do yourself a favor and click on it, anyway.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfH2BY5pdLw

When I first heard this song, I immediately thought how cool it would be to have a stage filled with dancers and Jon Schmidt playing with them. Just like writing words on paper, I could see the whole thing in my head. Of course, in my head, I do not have two left feet and I am on the stage dancing with them but—yeah, it’s basically the same, right?

So, I wrote the show, put my letter in the mail box, and told them that all I want in return is a free ticket to the show and a hug from one of the professional dancers, Maksim. Is that really too much to ask? No one wants to publish my book, but if my creative writing wins me a ticket to this show…life will be grand. (Big smile.)

Seriously, I would love to go to California. I’m craving it.

Anyway, I love that show. What’s there not to like? Music… dancing… half naked people… heaven.

Side note: Watch him play that piano. Seriously. Watch him. You can almost taste his joy. I can’t play the piano, as stated in an earlier post, and I can’t dance (Unless you count spinning around the room or jumping up and down.) but when I write, I feel like this music. And anything that brings anyone this much joy is worth holding on too. Worth fighting for. So, whether you play the piano, dance, write, spin around the room, or jump up and down…this is what we should all be looking for in life. Something that fills us up and lets us fly. You’ll know you’re there when your face looks like his.

Broke Down in Wiggins

2009-08-19T19:46:00.000-07:00

As a writer, I feel it’s important to take a step back (Especially if you are ready to light a bonfire, throw your entire manuscript in and dance around the flames with war paint on your face. Yes, I’ll admit, the idea has crossed my mind more than once.) and think about why you decided to start writing in the first place. What life experiences made you want to create your own characters and then coax them through a world that you alone shaped?

Today, I am taking that step back, at least for a few minutes, to share a story that made me want to write. Ten years ago, when I was sixteen, I had an experience that I still count as one of the biggest highlights in my life. Mind you, my life hasn’t been all that exciting.

It was almost ten o’ clock on a Sunday night, and I was driving home from a church function in my dad’s white pick-up truck. To tell you how much I loathed this truck would be a whole other story, but let’s just say that the damn thing had it out for me from the beginning. With a third gear that liked to hide and a tricky clutch, I had lost many nights sleep over my fear of driving it, something I had to do daily. Of course, by the time this story took place, I had mastered those set of challenges, so I was actually pretty relaxed.

My night had gone semi-well, but I was anxious to get home, take off my dress, kick off my heels, and go to bed. Monday mornings always came too soon. They still do. Anyway, I was about two miles from home when I pulled up to a stop sign. I stopped, put the truck in first gear and slowly let out the clutch, giving the engine some gas. I don’t exactly know what happened here, but I do remember the car made a horrible sound and wouldn’t move. Instantly, I panicked. I had always known my life would end here, in this damn truck. Would my dad finally feel bad for making me drive it, when he found my lifeless body slumped over the steering wheel? For a fleeting second that image gave me some satisfaction. Then the realization that the only danger I was in was being stranded just outside of town. By “just outside of town” I mean: There were two cornfields on each side of the road, and the nearest gas station was further than my house. Mind you, this is before the time when everyone carried a cell phone, especially out in the country and especially if your name was Meagan.

Doing the only thing I could think of, I turned off the car and tried to restart it. Tried, because actually the car wouldn’t turn back on. Not even a hint of a growl from the engine. Now my fear was turning into annoyance. This was far outside my capabilities. Give me the key and I could drive but don’t talk to me about changing the oil, lifting the hood, checking for spare tires, or anything else that involved mysterious pieces of metal. After beating the dashboard (Dramatic? Yes.) for a few minutes, I finally decided I was going to have to walk home. The thought didn’t excite me, because I hated the dark and had recently watched Sixth Sense, so, yeah, I was thinking dead people….

As I was contemplating the probability that there were already some dead people watching me from the cornfield, another truck stopped. A guy wearing a cowboy hat rolled his window down and asked if I needed help. Did I need help? Well, I was sitting in the middle of the street in a broken truck, hoping that I would be able to outrun the dead. Yes, I needed help. But instead of saying this, I rolled down my window about an inch and told him—and the other two guys sitting next to him—that help was on the way. In fact, my three enormous army brothers would be here in about thirty seconds. Why did I say this? Because ever since I was old enough to remember, my overly protective mother had warned me about the danger of strangers, particularly of the male gender, and the three guys sitting in the truck were grinning at me like I was something to eat.

After the helpful truck drove away, I was back to Plan A: Run like hell all the way home.

So, I got out of the car, and to keep somewhat sane, started talking out loud. Mostly cursing the truck, calling it horrible things like, “You stupid piece of junk!” and threatening to push it off a cliff, if I ever found one. I was about two giant steps away from my car when it began to rain. I’m not talking a light drizzle or sprinkling, I’m talking the ugly heavens opened up to reveal a mild nightmare. Mind you, I was only wearing a dress and walking in two-inch heels on a dirt road that before my very eyes was turning to mud. It didn’t take long before I was soaking wet and my heels were being swallowed up by the road, like quicksand. Mean while, I was constantly scanning the rows of corn for faces with dead eyes and white skin. I made it about a half a mile before I rolled my ankle and fell in the mud. At this point, most of my fear had left and I was just flat out pissed. Bring it on dead people. BRING IT ON!

Hitching up my skirt, I started out again. Only this time, instead of rolling my ankle, I lost one of my two-inch heels. I don’t know where it went, somewhere in the mud, but definitely off my shoe. By now I was laughing; it was kind of an insane cackle. I didn’t know this kind of stuff happened in real life.

And as I looked around the darkness, water dripping from my chin, I spotted the house down the street. Now, normally, under different circumstances (like, if it wasn’t raining, I didn’t have a hurt ankle, and only one good shoe) I would have continued home, like a trooper. Across a field, I could see my house, but it was still a good mile or so away. However, seeing as I had only made it about a half a mile so far, I was seriously contemplating going to that house down the street and asking for help. I knew the family that lived there. The dad was a Baptist preacher, well-known in the community, so I didn’t fear for my life. I knew his daughter; she was nice, and I also knew his son, Jacob. In fact, truth be told, I had a slight crush on this boy. I’m sure most girls in that town did. He had killer eyes and a friendly personality. A deadly combination for any innocent victim.

Now if I’d had any self-confidence at all, it would have been easy to approach that house, given my situation. But, as it was, having no self-confidence whatsoever, it was quite a difficult decision. I didn’t particularly want to see a cute guy looking like a drowned rat. But when the thunder and lightening started, I realized I had run out of options. Besides, what were the chances he was there, anyway? I’d knock on the door, ask to borrow a phone, and call my parents. He’d probably never know I was there. I convinced myself of this as I stumbled down the road, grateful that at least the water was rinsing the mud from my hands. I stood on his doorstep for a full five minutes, squeezing the water out of my hair and debating. When I finally did knock, I almost tried to limp away before the door opened. I know. I know. Big chicken.

Anyway, the door opened and low and behold!!!!!

Crap.

Jacob was standing there, looking at me with a surprised grin and those killer, killer eyes. I think I said something really awesome like, hi, as he let me in. I could feel steam coming off the back of my wet neck as he continued to stare me down. Then, suddenly both of his parents were there, and I was explaining my predicament and asking if I could borrow a phone. It looked like they were all holding back laughter; I’m sure I looked ridiculous. But instead of offering me a phone, they volunteered Jacob to drive me home.

Crap. Crap. Double Crap that starts with and “S” and ends with a “T”.

Jacob grabbed the keys and with a grin, walked me to the car. I made sure to stand tall on my twisted ankle, so he wouldn’t know I’d rolled it. I had left that part of my sad story out, along with the missing heel on my other shoe. I already looked pathetic enough. Like the gentleman he was, he opened the passenger door for me. I fell inside and the door shut. This is when I said a prayer. Something like: Dear God. Don’t let me make a fool out of myself.

He got in; we started driving and talking, and it suddenly hit me how wonderful this night really was. How lucky I was that my truck had died. That it was raining. That I hurt my ankle. That I was missing a two-inch heel. And, unexpectedly, there was another thought… What would it be like to kiss Jacob, right now? I wondered. Having had no prior experience in the kissing department, and knowing he probably did, made the intriguing thought stick. Would he kiss me, if I asked him? It was so tempting to ask him to pull over the car. I could see the whole thing playing out in my brain.

“Stop the car,” I say.

“What?”

“Pull over.”

And, of course, in my head he does.

“What are we doing?” he asks.

“I need you to kiss me.”

A big, confused laugh with a, “What?”

“Listen, I’m sixteen years old with no prospects and the potential of being the prettiest nun you’ve ever seen. I just want to know what it would be like, kissing you. It doesn’t have to mean anything; we never have to talk about it again. Just, please. Kiss me.”

And, of course, because we are still in my head, he does. And let’s just say—kissing him was better than I thought.

But, by this point, we were pulling up to my real house and my real mom was peering through the window. I thanked him for the ride, resisted the urge to lean across the seat and play out my fantasy, and got out of the car. I walked in the house, answered my mom’s hysterical questions, and went to my bedroom. Still soaking wet, I sat on my bed, and grinning like a fool, proceeded to re-write the end of my story over and over and over in my head… Of course, it always ended the same way. With that smoldering kiss.

Wow. That was fun and very therapeutic. I used WHOLE CAPITAL WORDS, multiple explanation points, commas whenever I felt like it, and I’m sure there are a few misspelled words and other whathaveyous….

Don’t care. The whole point was telling the story. That’s why I started writing in the first place. I wanted to tell a story. Sometimes, during the really important editing and the endless revising, it’s hard to remember why this all started out so fun….

Now that I remember, I’m going back to work.

You tell me....

2009-08-12T07:04:00.001-07:00

I recently had an “ah-ha!” moment, as my old Psychology professor would say. I realized that the manuscript I have been slaving away over had a major flaw. The first chapter sucked. While I think it was well-written, it lacked the essence of my whole story, especially the first paragraphs. At least this is how I’ve been feeling. Tell me, what do you think?

Original First Paragraphs:

Tonight the bakery was filled with customers; it seemed like the whole town had come in for a visit. Of course, that wasn’t saying much.
From the outside the bakery looked remarkably modest. However, the inside held a special kind of atmosphere; it was the kind of mood only a small town could generate. Some people were sitting at tables while they enjoyed a cup of coffee or a piece of pie. Others were busy making their orders. They were all, however, loudly talking and joking with one another. This was one of the many hazards of living in this town. We all knew each other.

Revised First Paragraphs:

I pressed my face deeper into my pillow, attempting to block out all the images that wanted to fill a space in my head. I didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not when I needed to stay in control. But it was too late….
I could already see him busting through the door; the echo of a gun shot was already ringing in my ears. I shut my eyes tighter, but it did no good. The spaces had been filled; I was already there.

I do realize I am opening myself up to all kinds of critiques, but what do you think? Does the second “revised” first paragraph pull you in? One notable difference, which I think is a big deal, is that in the first draft, I start my whole story out describing the bakery where she lives. Now, as nice as that bakery is (and it does hold a dear place in my heart) my story is NOT about it. The revised paragraph starts out in my character’s head and THIS is where the story lies. The interesting thing is, I didn’t change my story at all. Everything is the same; I just presented it differently.

On a side note, if anyone does read this, they know that I am not a full-time blogger (I do not post stuff everyday. I shoot for once a week.). I would love to spend more time on it; I just don’t have more time to spend. Especially if I want to finish my second manuscript and the edits on the first, which I do, therefore, I can’t.

A Strong Voice

2009-08-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

Recently, one of the blogs I visit held a contest to be a guest "blog speaker" on his blog. The guy is one popular dude and gets hundreds of entries, but since I am always looking for a good excuse to write, I entered anyway. I didn't make the cut, but I figured I could post it here. Not that anyone who reads this (Hi mom and dad!) really care, but it makes me feel better! :)

A Strong Voice

As a person who has just finished polishing a manuscript, I have been looking for an agent. I am sure many of you, if not all, are in the same boat. It’s a daunting task, filled with query letters, rejections, the terrifying synopsis, and above all—putting yourself out there. Needless to say, to be a writer you must have the thickest of skin and the grandest mixture of humility and self-esteem.

To see if an agent might be interested in my work and to get a better feel for an agent, I always look them up online. That’s how I came across Nathan’s blog, which I find very informative and quite enjoyable to read.

As I have journeyed through many agents’ profiles (on Writer’s Marketplace, Agency websites, or blogs) I have found one thing in common. Most agents say that among other things, they are looking for “a strong voice” in the writing.

This word “voice” has come up so frequently that I have thought about it a lot. Mostly asking myself the question: “Does my writing have a strong voice?” but also thinking about the word itself. What does it mean to have a “voice” in your writing?

I am sure there are many definitions, and if you asked someone else, they might have a completely different opinion. I only aim to tell you what I have personally discovered. To me, having a voice means literally speaking the truth. It sounds deep, doesn’t it? But really, I don’t think that speaking the truth always has to be deep or life-changing. In fact, most of the time, I think it is a whole lot simpler than that.

Example: A few months back, I read the book, Me and Mr. Darcy by Alexandra Potter. If you haven’t read this, I would recommend it. Why? Because it speaks the truth and Alexandra wrote it in a way that is absolutely hilarious. My favorite part of her story is when her heroine, Emily Albright, uses the bathroom on a tour bus. I couldn’t stop laughing when Emily sees leftovers on the toilet seat, proceeds to squat over it because of her profound need, stops in the middle of her mission to overhear an important conversation that is taking place just outside the door, and bravely pulls up her pants when she realizes there is no toilet paper available!

Now, I am not suggesting that all truth and great voice lies in horrendous bathroom scenes, but I am suggesting that this author did a wonderful job describing a scenario that a lot of us women have surely experienced in some way. And I think that is the key. When we write the truth—whether it is funny, serious, inspirational, sad, or down right dark—people relate to it, and when people relate to something, they want to read more. It is important to note that not every person sees truth the same way. That is why two people can feel completely different about the same book.

So, to sum up— having a strong voice in your writing, means writing the truth, and if you write the truth it will reach readers and literary agents. :)

Happy writing!

Meagan

If your name is Joshua, don't read this!

2009-07-24T19:47:00.001-07:00

First of all, I got another rejection today! :) Second, I sent out another query and finished the first chapter to another book! You just can't keep me down. :)

Now, down to business.

I've been doing a lot of thinking this week about passions. See, when I was a kid, I didn't really have something that I was truly passionate about. There were things that I liked; I enjoyed singing, acting, running, but nothing that really made me feel alive, nothing that made me feel completely whole.

Growing up with my little brother, Josh, was interesting. First of all, he was a really strange kid. (And since he isn't reading this, I can say that.) Now, there are many stories that I could tell, but this week I have been thinking about Josh and the piano.

I was around twelve years old when we first got a piano in our house. All the kids were fasinated with it; however, my fasination quickly faded when I started taking piano lessons. I HATED practicing and did everything I could to get out of it. However, my strange brother, Josh, would sit and practice for hours. Now, there is no doubt that the boy was talented, but the effort he put in to learning music amazed me. And no matter how hard I tried to imitate him, (and I didn't try very hard) I couldn't. To me, learning to play the piano was like getting my teeth pulled out without any medication. I just couldn't understand how Josh could sit there, on that piano bench, and practice for hours and enjoy doing it.

Well, now I understand. Finally, at age twenty-six, I found my passion. Finally, I can understand why someone would spend hours and hours and hours and hours (am I getting carried away) to learn something and be estatic to be doing it.

Writing is definitely my passion. I wouldn't spend countless hours, night and day, month after month, working on a story, just so it could be told, if it wasn't.

Side note: Over the years, my family has teased me mercilessly about my relationship with Josh. It is a well-known fact that I had a hard time growing up with a freakin genius, who on countless occasions seemed to be better at everything. :) The truth is, I love my brother very much, and when I think of him I don't think of everything he could do and I couldn't. I think of all the times he helped me do my school work so we could go outside and play; of when he took a midnight jog with me after I had to brake-up with my first love; of the fact that he was willing to donate a kidney for me on April fools of this year. :) Josh has ALWAYS been there for me, and I am so proud of him.

Booya!

2009-07-22T22:24:00.000-07:00

I didn't think it would happen. Everything was against me. But somehow I managed it.

Today, for the first time in about a week, I actually worked out. (Booya! Go me!)

I have been so busy taking trips (not nearly as glamorous as it sounds, trust me), fixing the car, and writing, that the idea of working out had almost become a foreign concept.

You want me to run? But I'm eating this Blizzard from McDonald's!
Yoga? Hmm...does sunbathing count?
Punch and kick what?

Seriously, it is so easy to get in a workout slump...at least for me. I have to be thinking about it constantly. Once I get in a routine, I do pretty well. But the minute my life schedule is disrupted, (big sigh) I'm a lost cause.

It's not easy to be me. First of all, my mother and sisters are all movie stars--tall , glamorous, and a size two. Then there is me...a little shorter, with an hourglass figure. I'm not complaining, just stating the facts.

However, I don't workout because of the physical benefits. (Well, maybe just a little...I mean, who doesn't like to have a six pack? And if you have to have an hourglass figure, it might as well be a toned one, right?) I workout because of how it makes me feel. There is something so empowering about it. Exercise beings balance to my day and peace in my life.

So it kills me when I slack off for a week. No, I mean it literally kills me. My whole body hurts right now, and I know it's only going to be worse in the morning. But I'm glad I got a workout in, because usually it only takes one good session for me to remember how important it is.

Now, does anyone have any Tylenol, or, perhaps a nice, steamy hot tub?

Life will go on....

2009-07-13T18:48:00.000-07:00

So you know those days when it seems like everything, and I mean everything, is crumbling around you? Today has been one of those days.

I woke up this morning and realized that my car isn't drivable. Then, to make matters worse, Brad's scooter (our second little get-a-round) isn't working either. I took the car in and found out it is going to be over five hundred dollars to fix. Great. Who knows what's wrong with the scooter. We don't have time to deal with that particular problem right now. Brad rode his bike to work.

I am trying to catch up from playing hooky for a week and the list is endless. Clean house, pay bills, mow lawn, weed flower garden, shop for food, and it goes on and on. It is overwhelming and the added pressure of car trouble does not make anything better.

Admittedly, I was at my breaking point this morning. But then I had to remind myself that the car trouble, along with the five hundred bucks, is out of my control. There is nothing I can do about any of it, so why stew. Life will go on.

I remember when I was a teenager and I'd have one of those days. Of course, at that point my "bad" days involved getting a zit on my face or being ignored by a boy that I liked. In those moments, I remember feeling that the world would end, that I would never recover from the unspeakable trauma.

The beautiful thing about getting older is that you know it's not the end of the world. You know that tomorrow is a new day and that things will work out. I find this "the sun will come out tomorrow" approach to my life a lot better than the laments of yesteryear.

So, I smiled when I paid the five hundred dollars to fix my car, and I am smiling now as I tackle my endless list of chores. Life will go on....

:)

Let's cast a stone

2009-07-03T11:59:00.000-07:00

It always baffles me how easily people cast stones at one another. I guess it’s an easy thing to do. You pick up a stone, and you toss it. You don’t have to think about it, but maybe you should.

This isn’t about Jesus. Sure, there is that great story in the Bible. The one where he stopped a blood-thirsty group of men from stoning a woman to death. A woman who was apparently caught in the act of having an affair. (Why don’t they mention her lover? Why isn’t his life being threatened as well? Of course, I’m sure the affair was entirely the woman’s fault. Throughout the ages, women have always been known for their uncontrollable sex drive.)

Excuse the sarcasm. It comes out in spurts.

Back to the story, which by the way, still isn’t about Jesus. Because, whether you believe in Jesus or not, this whole account definitely has some merit. You see, in the story, this group of law-abiding citizens ask Jesus if they should carry out the law and stone the woman to death, because of her affair. Jesus, being Jesus, says something to the effect of, “Hey, if any of you fine gentlemen are perfect, go ahead and cast a stone at her.”

Alright, I may be paraphrasing a bit, but by the end of the story, all the accusing men have disappeared and the scored woman is left untouched. Apparently all those fine gentlemen had done some shit of their own.

This last week, I’ve been thinking a lot about this story. I don’t know what it is with life but annoying commentary seems to come out in waves. And these past few weeks, I’ve had my fill of it. I’ve heard enough, “Now that Michael Jackson’s dead, the children can be safe!” comments to last me a life time. (By the way people, he was never actually convicted of any wrong doing.)

You’d think that people would remember all the great things Michael Jackson did with his life, instead of throwing stones at his grave. But it makes me wonder, why are we so quick to judge each other? Does it just make us feel better to label someone else as a looser? Because in all seriousness… if we are looking at other people, we certainly aren’t looking at ourselves.

I have a low tolerance for people who think they are better than others in any way, shape, or form. I don’t see the point. The truth is we are all the same, and we all do shit. So, we really don’t have the right to pick up that stone, let alone throw it.

Holy Crap...I'm a writer.

2009-06-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, I realized something. I am a writer. There is no way to get around it.

I was instantly depressed by this news. Not because I don’t enjoy writing. I love it. I spent the past year and a half doing a lot of it. No, my depression didn’t stem from my dislike but from my inexperience and lack of knowledge. You see, I might be a writer, but do I know how to write?

About two years ago, a story started growing in my head. For months it grew louder and louder until one day I realized that I couldn’t ignore it. I had to write it down. I had never attempted to write any form of fiction before, and I had no idea how to start, but I began anyway, using books as a guide.

During this time, I was finishing a degree in Psychology; however, I found it hard to focus. I was suddenly less interested in a degree that I’d been working toward for the past four years and more interested in what to call my main character. I would find myself sitting in my Statistics class developing my plot, fleshing out my conflict, etc. I would even write dialog in my notebook, sometimes a good page or two. By the end of that semester, I decided to take a break from working toward my degree. All I wanted to do was write this story that was literally screaming inside of me. So I did. I wrote non-stop for a year and half, all the while denying that I was a writer. I was just having fun, and quite seriously, I didn’t have choice. I was being consumed with an energy I had never felt, and it was intoxicating. With every page I wrote, the voices inside of my head diminished, until before I knew it, I had 500 pages of a novel. It was perfect.(Full of errors) It was beautiful.(Way too long) It was mine.

I was happy for about a day and then I realized something. Why in the heck did I write the damn thing? What was I doing? I wasn’t a writer. Who spends a year and a half of their life slaving over a book, when they aren’t really a writer? But I tried to ignore these questions and started editing it anyway.

During this editing phase, I learned all kinds of things. When to use “then” vs. “than”, how to spell “definitely”, that I consistently use the word “that” too much, and many more things that I felt a real writer should already know. I went through the book twice. Admittedly, this was getting old. My book was becoming more perfect but less enticing. I could repeat pages of my work from memory. I agonized over every sentence, until I couldn’t see straight. Finally, I decided, what the heck, I should send it out and see what happens.

So, I did. And with in a week got two rejections. Did my query letters suck? Probably. Was it the first five pages I copied into the email? Could be, although of course they don’t say. Did they reject me because I didn’t have any great writing credentials to brag about? More than likely.

But, what if my entire story was truly horrific? I didn’t think it was but what did I know. I wasn’t a writer. This is where my story ends, because this is when I realized, “Holy crap…I’m a writer.”

And this is when I became depressed, because as mush as I love to write, I know I have a lot to learn. I mean, I just figured out I was comma-splicing half my manuscript! What kind of writer does that?!

I spent last night sulking, but by this morning I came to the conclusion that I have two options.

1. Stop writing, pretend that these past two years never happened and go on with life.
2. Keep writing, learn what you don’t know and face what you fear.

I am going to go with option two. I have decided to change my degree to English with an emphasis in creative writing. I hope to start school again this fall. I am going to keep working on my book, because it is a great story, and it deserves to be told. And, I’m going to start another book that is already beginning to burn holes in my brain. And while I am doing all that, I am going to build my credentials by entering contests and joining writing groups, etc, etc, etc…

And I am going to confess to this blog, because I need a place to vent. So if you’re a writer and you want to confess anything, go for it. Get it out. I am sure that with lots of Yoga and a good punching bag, we will all be okay.