I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I wanted to be other things too--a vet, a translator, a consultant, a spy, a diplomat, and I'm more than half serious about going into the remodeling business with my cousin E (design twin!). But the one thing that I never changed my mind about was writing. I wanted to be an author.
About six years ago--post college, pre-current glamorous job--Mom and I were driving somewhere and she asked me what I wanted to do with my life.
"I want to be a writer," I told her.
"I don't think you do," she said. I remember going into defense mode--she just didn't understand, she didn't support my dreams, all that teenage angsty crap I really should have grown out of by then. "If I thought you were serious about it," she added, "I would support you 100%. But you're not."
"But I am!" I protested. "I'm writing!" And I was, sporadically, on some abysmally horrible vampire book I'd been messing with for YEARS.
"But what have you finished?" And what she said next is still as fresh in my head as if she'd said it yesterday. "If you were serious about it you'd be writing every day. You'd be taking classes. You'd find a writing group to get feedback. You'd be finishing short stories and sending those out. But you're not."
And she was right.
Maybe six months after that I finished my first short story. And I submitted it to magazines. It didn't get published, but I did get some really great personalized rejections. A year after that the zombie book was finished. Then I signed up for a class, and met my amazingly talented and all around awesome critique partner (hi J!).
The whole agent-contract-NYT bestseller-bajillionaire part hasn't worked out according to plan (YET!) but if I hadn't started taking my writing seriously I'd probably still be "working" on that really, really, really bad vampire book and wouldn't have the zombie book, with funny, kick-ass Cami, or the ghost book, with my most favoritest Zeke.
And yes--once I started taking it seriously my family did too, and now they're as supportive as they are loud (which is very). I <3 them.
Not that I've got it all figured out. If my 3am writing binge last weekend taught me anything, it's that I can write a hell of a lot more at a time than I've been letting myself get away with. If I can crank out more than 4,000 words in a 5 hour period, sticking with my 250 words a day goal is pure laziness. And if I want to be able to write full time someday I need to be able to produce more than one book a year.
Hence, THE PLAN.
1) re-re-revise the ghost book (including new beginning, streamlined inner bits, and clarified ending [should probably also be a less-depressing ending, but I love it so]). To be finished no later than the end of February.
2) WHILE working on step 1, send out the zombie book again.
3) Once step 1 is finished, re-write query letter and send out ghost book again
4) WHILE working on step(s) 2/3, start new book. Finish this in 4 months.
The last one is the most intimidating, though in theory it should be totally doable. If I'm looking at a 70k book (which is about standard for YA) that equates to about 17,500 a month, or about 583 per day. Keep in mind my goal has been 1 (handwritten) page a day, which I now know averages more than the 250 words I was estimating, so doubling that (piddly) goal really isn't that much of a stretch. Especially if I turn off the TV and put away the cell phone and turn off the internet and actually work.
So yeah. Total cakewalk.
But hard or not, this needs to happen. I think I've accomplished a fair amount in the last few years, but like you should dress for the job you want instead of the job you have, it's time for me to start writing like I have the job I want.
Plus, should the whole agent-contract-NYT besteller-bajillionaire thing happen, maybe the new regime will mean I won't have a nervous breakdown and become an official one hit wonder. Win/win!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
and high up above or down below
It's been a while since something in this house spectacularly exploded, so I really should have been expecting this.
Last Thursday I spent some time organizing the basement and decided to check out the utility space behind the basement bathroom, just because I hadn't in a while and the doors are usually blocked with junk.
See those PVC pipes? Those are the lines coming from the water supply for the house (in the ceiling) to supply the sink, toilet, and shower in the super-scary basement bathroom. They look like they were done so professionally, don't they?
It's hard to tell from this picture, but they also looked like they were leaking. A lot. The right hand valve (the shut off for the cold water line) had decided it didn't want to be a valve. It wanted to be a spout. There was no way to stop the leak without turning off the water to the whole house, so I put up that trash bag to keep the drywall from getting wetter and to divert the leak into a bucket underneath it.
By the time I got home from work on Friday the bucket was almost overflowing. Awesome!
After consulting with our super-contractor (aka Dad) I made a trip to Lowes for new pipe, some joints, and two new valves. Might as well replace both of them while I was at it, right? (Not like we're not going to have to re-plumb that whole mess when we finally get around to fixing that unholy mess of a bathroom, but let's not get into that.)
So once I was home I cut my new pipe to size, primed it, and pulled out the PVC cement to start assembling my pieces.
The cement was congealed. Useless.
So I went back to Lowes. I bought cement, and just because I wasn't interested in being there a third time, two more valves and 4 more joints. Just in case.
Back at home I found all my parts again, checked to make sure they were ready to be glued, and pulled out the cement.
Which I couldn't open.
I don't know what mutated superhero they had closing those things at the factory, but that effer WOULD. NOT. OPEN.
It's at about this time that those of you who are friends with me on Facebook probably saw a series of increasingly, um, agitated posts. Involving some, let's say, salty language.
I really don't like plumbing.
After several long, hand-bruising minutes of trying to get that thing open, and after finding a can opener to cut the lid off entirely, I found a pair of vice grips that thankfully weren't included in the last "give Dad's tools back" purge, and got the cement open.
So after an hour and a half of working on this level-one plumbing repair (as Dad put it) I finally had my pieces--new valve connected on either end to 6 inches of new pipe and a connector.
Back to the basement. I used a hacksaw (also from Dad) to cut above the non-broken valve, which gave me this:
Then I sanded (with a belt sander belt, because I couldn't find actual sandpaper) the pipe, primed it...
...and glued the new section in.
Voila.
Then it was just a matter of measuring where to cut the lower section, sanding/priming/gluing, holding, and hoping for the best.
Yeah, I know it looks exactly the same.
The pipe with the broken valve was much grosser looking, so who know how long that thing had been leaking. The process was the same though; cut, sand, prime, glue, repeat. And then I had two new valves.
And they didn't leak! I've checked repeatedly since Friday night and those suckers are still nice and dry. My facebook status after that discovery was much less agitated:
"Hmm. Since my repairs aren't leaking, does this mean I'm obligated to display some plumber's crack?"
I did not, for the record.
Oh! Speaking of things that people don't want to see. See that silver tubing poking down from the ceiling?
That's from the exhaust fan in that bathroom. Just, vented into nowhere, so all that moist air could make happy little mold colonies on the back of the utility space doors. One more lovely problem I'm looking forward to fixing.
I really need to start applying to those "fix my scary mold-ridden house" shows on HGTV.
Last Thursday I spent some time organizing the basement and decided to check out the utility space behind the basement bathroom, just because I hadn't in a while and the doors are usually blocked with junk.
See those PVC pipes? Those are the lines coming from the water supply for the house (in the ceiling) to supply the sink, toilet, and shower in the super-scary basement bathroom. They look like they were done so professionally, don't they?
It's hard to tell from this picture, but they also looked like they were leaking. A lot. The right hand valve (the shut off for the cold water line) had decided it didn't want to be a valve. It wanted to be a spout. There was no way to stop the leak without turning off the water to the whole house, so I put up that trash bag to keep the drywall from getting wetter and to divert the leak into a bucket underneath it.
By the time I got home from work on Friday the bucket was almost overflowing. Awesome!
After consulting with our super-contractor (aka Dad) I made a trip to Lowes for new pipe, some joints, and two new valves. Might as well replace both of them while I was at it, right? (Not like we're not going to have to re-plumb that whole mess when we finally get around to fixing that unholy mess of a bathroom, but let's not get into that.)
So once I was home I cut my new pipe to size, primed it, and pulled out the PVC cement to start assembling my pieces.
The cement was congealed. Useless.
So I went back to Lowes. I bought cement, and just because I wasn't interested in being there a third time, two more valves and 4 more joints. Just in case.
Back at home I found all my parts again, checked to make sure they were ready to be glued, and pulled out the cement.
Which I couldn't open.
I don't know what mutated superhero they had closing those things at the factory, but that effer WOULD. NOT. OPEN.
It's at about this time that those of you who are friends with me on Facebook probably saw a series of increasingly, um, agitated posts. Involving some, let's say, salty language.
I really don't like plumbing.
After several long, hand-bruising minutes of trying to get that thing open, and after finding a can opener to cut the lid off entirely, I found a pair of vice grips that thankfully weren't included in the last "give Dad's tools back" purge, and got the cement open.
So after an hour and a half of working on this level-one plumbing repair (as Dad put it) I finally had my pieces--new valve connected on either end to 6 inches of new pipe and a connector.
Back to the basement. I used a hacksaw (also from Dad) to cut above the non-broken valve, which gave me this:
Then I sanded (with a belt sander belt, because I couldn't find actual sandpaper) the pipe, primed it...
...and glued the new section in.
Voila.
Then it was just a matter of measuring where to cut the lower section, sanding/priming/gluing, holding, and hoping for the best.
Yeah, I know it looks exactly the same.
The pipe with the broken valve was much grosser looking, so who know how long that thing had been leaking. The process was the same though; cut, sand, prime, glue, repeat. And then I had two new valves.
And they didn't leak! I've checked repeatedly since Friday night and those suckers are still nice and dry. My facebook status after that discovery was much less agitated:
"Hmm. Since my repairs aren't leaking, does this mean I'm obligated to display some plumber's crack?"
I did not, for the record.
Oh! Speaking of things that people don't want to see. See that silver tubing poking down from the ceiling?
That's from the exhaust fan in that bathroom. Just, vented into nowhere, so all that moist air could make happy little mold colonies on the back of the utility space doors. One more lovely problem I'm looking forward to fixing.
I really need to start applying to those "fix my scary mold-ridden house" shows on HGTV.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
he be coming home late, yeah he's coming home late
First off, here are some links for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDX8Lyl16Qs&feature=share
https://www.google.com/landing/takeaction/
SOPA/PIPA=not cool, guys.
Second, SHORT STORY.
As in, I wrote one.
I've been writing my butt off the past year and a half, first on the ghost story, and then MORE on the ghost story, and then EVEN MORE on the ghost story. I haven't kept track of the word count changes between drafts (without going back and looking at each file and adding it up and I love you, people, but not enough to do math) but the latest draft clocks in at 80k? Ish? I think one of the earlier versions was as low as 70ish. Plus fifty million different query letters, the hated synopsis, and I would take credit for blog entries but seeing as how there were only a (shameful) twelve, I won't.
How does 150,000 sound? I'm gonna go with that; might be high (probably not), might be low (I hope so), but it's a good, round number. (For non-writery folks, amount written is measured in words, not pages, because depending on font/format/amount of dialogue/a billionty other things, the number of words on each page can change drastically. At an average of 250 words per double-spaced, typed page, that's about 600 pages written.
Which really is not a lot, now that I look at it. Cry.)
Let's pretend that's a lot of writing (really it should be more, but whatever). Yay writing! Boo none of it being new stuff. I did want to write a whole new book last year, and, obviously, didn't. Enter my little I-can't-take-any-more-of-this-or-I'm-going-to-lose-it break. No ghost book to work on. No new book idea thought out/interesting enough to start working on.
Wait, I thought. I'll write a short story! It'll be quick, it'll be unrelated to anything, and if it sucks, who cares? I can't do anything with it anyway! (short story markets are pretty impossible to break in to, plus I tend to go on and on and on too much to fit into the word counts. SHOCKING I KNOW.)
Then there was the little thing about how I thought "write a short story" was on my list of 2011 resolutions, and with all of December ahead of me, I thought I could be accomplished. YES I KNOW THIS IS SAD. 10 resolutions is not a lot to remember, right? But look. I seriously can't remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday. I wouldn't be able to remember what I had for breakfast THIS morning, if not for the fact that I eat the same thing every day I'm at work.
Wait, which means I remember yesterday's! But yes, seriously, I had to logic it out like that. I don't know if this'll make you more or less sad for me, but just a few weeks ago I had to get out a calculator to find out how old I was turning this year, because I COULD NOT remember (I'm a year older than I thought :( ), and while talking to my brother the other day I seriously thought 1990 was like ten years ago. INSTEAD OF 22.
And see? Now I can't remember what I was talking about.
Just kidding. Mostly.
STORY. Right. So anyway I started writing this sucker early December, thinking even at my slacker pace I could finish it before the new year. And I did not. Surprise. But I kept poking away at it, and filled up a bunch of notebook pages, and it was coming along and I didn't hate it but suddenly January was halfway over and my "quick" little idea was starting to take up a lot of time, and I was starting to get itchy about getting back to my "real" babies, the still-homeless books.
I had a 4 day weekend last week, between my regular day off and a holiday, and I decided that I was going to finish that puppy before I came back to work on Tuesday. Did I work on it on Friday? Not really. I think I added about a page to it. Did I work on it on Saturday? Meh. Maybe another page. Sunday?
Nope.
So at about 930 Sunday night I looked at it, thought, "I'm almost at the end", and decided to stay up until it was done. Couldn't take more than a few hours, right?
THIS WAS THE MOST WRONG I HAVE EVER BEEN.
That I can remember, but let's not get into that again.
I wrote. And wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote and drank soda and wrote and ate chocolate and wrote and got glared at by the dogs and wrote and whined on Facebook about how this thing WASN'T ENDING and wrote and wrote and wrote and then finally I hit that space where you're so tired you're suddenly not anymore (I have a vacation home in that place. It's nice.) and then I wrote and wrote and wrote some more.
And I re-remembered that I really, really suck at estimating how much of a project I have left to finish, and learned that the dogs get really cranky and annoying when I keep them up too late, and that if you wait long enough the cats will get even greedier than they usually are and will demand a third supper.
When I was finally got to "the end"--and I did! I finished it!--it was 3 in the morning.
I spent pretty much all of Monday typing up the beast (one of these days I'll have to give up on the spiral notebooks, I think) and learned that my skills for underestimating don't just apply to how close I am to finishing something. They also apply to word counts.
When I went to bed Monday morning I'd estimated I'd written about 3,000 words of a 6,250-ish long story. No. Oh, no no no. Turns out I'd written 4,768 words of a 8,561 word story. That's over HALF. In roughly 5 hours.
(which comes out to 953.6 words/almost 4 pages per hour.)
What have I learned from this experience? One, that I need to stop thinking I'm almost done with something, because clearly I never am. And two, that I need to up my daily writing goal from one page to a lot more than one page, since obviously I can handle it.
ANYWAY.
I am trying to decide what to do with said short story. I'm a lot more fond of it than I thought I would be, but I'm also not willing/able to devote the time to chopping it (not sure it could be, anyway) and trying to place it, when I've got the books to deal with. Should I put it up here? Or save it for that far off day when I'm rich and famous and can release an anthology of all the weird stuff I couldn't stretch into full length books? Decisions, decisions.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDX8Lyl16Qs&feature=share
https://www.google.com/landing/takeaction/
SOPA/PIPA=not cool, guys.
Second, SHORT STORY.
As in, I wrote one.
I've been writing my butt off the past year and a half, first on the ghost story, and then MORE on the ghost story, and then EVEN MORE on the ghost story. I haven't kept track of the word count changes between drafts (without going back and looking at each file and adding it up and I love you, people, but not enough to do math) but the latest draft clocks in at 80k? Ish? I think one of the earlier versions was as low as 70ish. Plus fifty million different query letters, the hated synopsis, and I would take credit for blog entries but seeing as how there were only a (shameful) twelve, I won't.
How does 150,000 sound? I'm gonna go with that; might be high (probably not), might be low (I hope so), but it's a good, round number. (For non-writery folks, amount written is measured in words, not pages, because depending on font/format/amount of dialogue/a billionty other things, the number of words on each page can change drastically. At an average of 250 words per double-spaced, typed page, that's about 600 pages written.
Which really is not a lot, now that I look at it. Cry.)
Let's pretend that's a lot of writing (really it should be more, but whatever). Yay writing! Boo none of it being new stuff. I did want to write a whole new book last year, and, obviously, didn't. Enter my little I-can't-take-any-more-of-this-or-I'm-going-to-lose-it break. No ghost book to work on. No new book idea thought out/interesting enough to start working on.
Wait, I thought. I'll write a short story! It'll be quick, it'll be unrelated to anything, and if it sucks, who cares? I can't do anything with it anyway! (short story markets are pretty impossible to break in to, plus I tend to go on and on and on too much to fit into the word counts. SHOCKING I KNOW.)
Then there was the little thing about how I thought "write a short story" was on my list of 2011 resolutions, and with all of December ahead of me, I thought I could be accomplished. YES I KNOW THIS IS SAD. 10 resolutions is not a lot to remember, right? But look. I seriously can't remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday. I wouldn't be able to remember what I had for breakfast THIS morning, if not for the fact that I eat the same thing every day I'm at work.
Wait, which means I remember yesterday's! But yes, seriously, I had to logic it out like that. I don't know if this'll make you more or less sad for me, but just a few weeks ago I had to get out a calculator to find out how old I was turning this year, because I COULD NOT remember (I'm a year older than I thought :( ), and while talking to my brother the other day I seriously thought 1990 was like ten years ago. INSTEAD OF 22.
And see? Now I can't remember what I was talking about.
Just kidding. Mostly.
STORY. Right. So anyway I started writing this sucker early December, thinking even at my slacker pace I could finish it before the new year. And I did not. Surprise. But I kept poking away at it, and filled up a bunch of notebook pages, and it was coming along and I didn't hate it but suddenly January was halfway over and my "quick" little idea was starting to take up a lot of time, and I was starting to get itchy about getting back to my "real" babies, the still-homeless books.
I had a 4 day weekend last week, between my regular day off and a holiday, and I decided that I was going to finish that puppy before I came back to work on Tuesday. Did I work on it on Friday? Not really. I think I added about a page to it. Did I work on it on Saturday? Meh. Maybe another page. Sunday?
Nope.
So at about 930 Sunday night I looked at it, thought, "I'm almost at the end", and decided to stay up until it was done. Couldn't take more than a few hours, right?
THIS WAS THE MOST WRONG I HAVE EVER BEEN.
That I can remember, but let's not get into that again.
I wrote. And wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote and drank soda and wrote and ate chocolate and wrote and got glared at by the dogs and wrote and whined on Facebook about how this thing WASN'T ENDING and wrote and wrote and wrote and then finally I hit that space where you're so tired you're suddenly not anymore (I have a vacation home in that place. It's nice.) and then I wrote and wrote and wrote some more.
And I re-remembered that I really, really suck at estimating how much of a project I have left to finish, and learned that the dogs get really cranky and annoying when I keep them up too late, and that if you wait long enough the cats will get even greedier than they usually are and will demand a third supper.
When I was finally got to "the end"--and I did! I finished it!--it was 3 in the morning.
I spent pretty much all of Monday typing up the beast (one of these days I'll have to give up on the spiral notebooks, I think) and learned that my skills for underestimating don't just apply to how close I am to finishing something. They also apply to word counts.
When I went to bed Monday morning I'd estimated I'd written about 3,000 words of a 6,250-ish long story. No. Oh, no no no. Turns out I'd written 4,768 words of a 8,561 word story. That's over HALF. In roughly 5 hours.
(which comes out to 953.6 words/almost 4 pages per hour.)
What have I learned from this experience? One, that I need to stop thinking I'm almost done with something, because clearly I never am. And two, that I need to up my daily writing goal from one page to a lot more than one page, since obviously I can handle it.
ANYWAY.
I am trying to decide what to do with said short story. I'm a lot more fond of it than I thought I would be, but I'm also not willing/able to devote the time to chopping it (not sure it could be, anyway) and trying to place it, when I've got the books to deal with. Should I put it up here? Or save it for that far off day when I'm rich and famous and can release an anthology of all the weird stuff I couldn't stretch into full length books? Decisions, decisions.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
i never knew if i could face myself to change
Oh, resolutions. How I hate you.
In case you don't remember, last year I went over my stupendously failure-iffic resolutions from 2010, and made new ones for 2011. Here they are again, for you click-shy folks:
1) TOP SECRET
2) write a new book (vampires? superheroes? japanese monsters?). In 4 months.
3) put in wood floors
4) de-ugly the yard
5) new mailbox
6) prettify my closet
7) crown molding downstairs
8) half bath
9) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
10) blog at least 3 days a week
Looking at this list now I'm kind of wondering what the hell I was smoking. So how did I do? Let's find out!
1) TOP SECRET NOPE
2) write a new book NOPE
3) put in wood floors YES! (and I know, I need to blog about it already)
4) de-ugly the yard NOPE
5) new mailbox YES! (another long overdue blog entry!)
6) prettify my closet NOPE
7) crown molding downstairs NOPE
8) half bath NOPE
9) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week PARTIAL CREDIT
10) blog at least 3 days a week HAH! (12 times in the entire year is totally better, anyway)
Like I said. I was seriously smoking something. To be fair, some of those weren't total failures. No, I didn't write a new book, but I DID do an almost total rewrite of the ghost book. Crown molding didn't happen but we ARE halfway done putting in new baseboards and shoe molding. And...well...ok, all the others were pretty much total failures, but whatever. We're looking forward!
Now that I am older and wiser and not interested in failing what could be my last set of resolutions (it is 2012, y'all) I've decided to keep it real this time. So! 2012!
1) TOP SECRET
2) revise the ghost book. Again.
3) finish the sub list for the zombie book
4) blog more than once a month
4b) at least a third should be related to writing
5) finish the baseboards
6) pulls for the freaking kitchen drawers already!
7) write a short story
8) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
9) write a new book (in 4 months!)
10) think up a number 10
And guess what?
1) TOP SECRET
2) revise the ghost book. Again.
3) finish the sub list for the zombie book
4) blog more than once a month
4b) at least a third should be related to writing
5) finish the baseboards
6) pulls for the freaking kitchen drawers already!
7) write a short story DONE
8) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
9) write a new book (in 4 months!)
10) think up a number 10
BAM.
Okay okay, don't get too excited or start thinking I've been possessed or something. In all honesty I thought I had a short story on my 2011 list (until, um, right this second) and started it the last week of December. I didn't finish it then, of course, but this weekend I knocked that puppy out. Resolution completed!
I'm so proud.
Dear 2011,
I'm not going to lie. You and I? We've been through some things. I can't say I enjoyed them at the time (and I can't particularly say that looking back I enjoy them any better), but they were probably things that needed to happen. And they could have been worse than they were, and you were still a hell of a lot better than that jerk 2010, so thanks for that. The thing is, I've been talking to 2012, and I'm kind of excited. I think this might be the one.
But let's keep in touch, okay?
Me
In case you don't remember, last year I went over my stupendously failure-iffic resolutions from 2010, and made new ones for 2011. Here they are again, for you click-shy folks:
1) TOP SECRET
2) write a new book (vampires? superheroes? japanese monsters?). In 4 months.
3) put in wood floors
4) de-ugly the yard
5) new mailbox
6) prettify my closet
7) crown molding downstairs
8) half bath
9) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
10) blog at least 3 days a week
Looking at this list now I'm kind of wondering what the hell I was smoking. So how did I do? Let's find out!
1) TOP SECRET NOPE
2) write a new book NOPE
3) put in wood floors YES! (and I know, I need to blog about it already)
4) de-ugly the yard NOPE
5) new mailbox YES! (another long overdue blog entry!)
6) prettify my closet NOPE
7) crown molding downstairs NOPE
8) half bath NOPE
9) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week PARTIAL CREDIT
10) blog at least 3 days a week HAH! (12 times in the entire year is totally better, anyway)
Like I said. I was seriously smoking something. To be fair, some of those weren't total failures. No, I didn't write a new book, but I DID do an almost total rewrite of the ghost book. Crown molding didn't happen but we ARE halfway done putting in new baseboards and shoe molding. And...well...ok, all the others were pretty much total failures, but whatever. We're looking forward!
Now that I am older and wiser and not interested in failing what could be my last set of resolutions (it is 2012, y'all) I've decided to keep it real this time. So! 2012!
1) TOP SECRET
2) revise the ghost book. Again.
3) finish the sub list for the zombie book
4) blog more than once a month
4b) at least a third should be related to writing
5) finish the baseboards
6) pulls for the freaking kitchen drawers already!
7) write a short story
8) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
9) write a new book (in 4 months!)
10) think up a number 10
And guess what?
1) TOP SECRET
2) revise the ghost book. Again.
3) finish the sub list for the zombie book
4) blog more than once a month
4b) at least a third should be related to writing
5) finish the baseboards
6) pulls for the freaking kitchen drawers already!
7) write a short story DONE
8) walk the dogs at least 4 times a week
9) write a new book (in 4 months!)
10) think up a number 10
BAM.
Okay okay, don't get too excited or start thinking I've been possessed or something. In all honesty I thought I had a short story on my 2011 list (until, um, right this second) and started it the last week of December. I didn't finish it then, of course, but this weekend I knocked that puppy out. Resolution completed!
I'm so proud.
Dear 2011,
I'm not going to lie. You and I? We've been through some things. I can't say I enjoyed them at the time (and I can't particularly say that looking back I enjoy them any better), but they were probably things that needed to happen. And they could have been worse than they were, and you were still a hell of a lot better than that jerk 2010, so thanks for that. The thing is, I've been talking to 2012, and I'm kind of excited. I think this might be the one.
But let's keep in touch, okay?
Me
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
it's gone and you're dead again
Y'all in the mood for some weirdness?
After dinner at Mom and Dad's on Sunday the dogs and I were driving home when something darted in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes--dogs flying into the front seat (yes, I know, I should make them wear their stupid doggy seatbelts) and saw a fat little black shape hurry across the road. That looked like a chicken, I thought. Why the hell would there be a chicken in my neighborhood?
So I park the car and the dogs and I walk back down the street a bit, where I see a little blob-ish lump sitting in the road under the street lamp. It still looked like a chicken.
BECAUSE IT WAS ONE.
Now, I'm not going to spill any details about my neighborhood, STALKERS, but let's just say that I am so not in a rural area. Like, so not rural that the closest thing I've seen to livestock around here are the beasts currently begging me for a rawhide. So chickens? NOT NATIVE.
It was hard to get a good picture on my phone (yes, I am that crazy lady taking pictures of things at night in the middle of the street), what with the dogs and the clucking and the creepy beaky wobbly comby thing that could have come charging at me at any moment, but I did get some proof:
"It's a blob," K said, when I texted her the picture. So I did what anycrazy normal person would do. I put the dogs in the house and got my camera and became that crazy lady taking pictures of things at night in the middle of the street with her flash.
AND THEN I WAS VINDICATED.
I kept peeking out the window and the little chickeny blob was still out in the road until I went to bed, so I'm not sure what happened, or where he (she?) came from. There was a box with some feed-looking stuff in it on the curb beside it, so maybe somebody dumped it? The box and chicken were gone in the morning, so maybe/hopefully someone with fewer bird dogs than me took it in before it froze to death.
OH I forgot the best part. Right after I parked I called Dad, because if I'm going crazy and hallucinating chickens in my street, I want someone else to know about it.
Me: "Dad I almost ran over a chicken that was running across the street!"
Dad: "Did you ask it why?"
In other news:
I have been thinking a lot lately, about a lot of things. Like how I created this blog to talk about writing, and how I'm supposed to be working on either a)querying the old book or b)writing a new book or c)both, you slacker, and how I'm doing none of those things. Why haven't I been doing them? As much as I want to roll my eyes at myself for saying it, I think I am burned out.
So I've spent the past two months "rewriting my query" (translation: doing nothing of the sort) and painting baseboards and decorating Christmas trees and getting my hair dyed shiny red...
...and going to bed early and re-reading all my favorite series (Mercedes Lackey, I love you) and basically acting like I was no sort of writer at all. And I cannot tell you how nice it was, once I got past the whole "how can I be a professional writer if I can't even survive the query process without losing it?" guilt. And today there was a breakthrough. I worked on my query--and I didn't want to barf. And then I thought about rewriting the beginning of TDYK, and still didn't want to throw up.
Progress!
I'm still not itching to dive into a new book, even though I need to. I've got an idea for a short story I think I'll tackle first, and while I'm doing that (or after, depending on my multi-tasking abilities) I'll give TDYK another go and get it out there again. Because that book is awesome, dammit, and I'm not ready to give up on it.
And I'm glad I feel that way again.
In the meantime, I'm glad I took a break from it (and I know K was glad of the break from my freaking about it), and I'm glad I took the time to do some "non-productive" things, too. (hint: when people say that writers must be readers? It's not just because you can learn what does/doesn't work from a published book. It's because reading something you love can remind you how awesome it is to create your own stuff, too. True fax.)
And to get back to the whole blogging about writing thing, I'm not sure how I'm going to do that. Maybe I'll post short stories? Or snippets of whatever I'm working on? Or annoy you by babbling about books I love? It'll be something book related, and I want to try to do it on a regular basis. Maybe I'll even do something painfully cutesy and alliterative...Writing Wednesday? (Ah, cutesy alliteration. Never stop making me want to hurl.)
After dinner at Mom and Dad's on Sunday the dogs and I were driving home when something darted in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes--dogs flying into the front seat (yes, I know, I should make them wear their stupid doggy seatbelts) and saw a fat little black shape hurry across the road. That looked like a chicken, I thought. Why the hell would there be a chicken in my neighborhood?
So I park the car and the dogs and I walk back down the street a bit, where I see a little blob-ish lump sitting in the road under the street lamp. It still looked like a chicken.
BECAUSE IT WAS ONE.
Now, I'm not going to spill any details about my neighborhood, STALKERS, but let's just say that I am so not in a rural area. Like, so not rural that the closest thing I've seen to livestock around here are the beasts currently begging me for a rawhide. So chickens? NOT NATIVE.
It was hard to get a good picture on my phone (yes, I am that crazy lady taking pictures of things at night in the middle of the street), what with the dogs and the clucking and the creepy beaky wobbly comby thing that could have come charging at me at any moment, but I did get some proof:
"It's a blob," K said, when I texted her the picture. So I did what any
AND THEN I WAS VINDICATED.
I kept peeking out the window and the little chickeny blob was still out in the road until I went to bed, so I'm not sure what happened, or where he (she?) came from. There was a box with some feed-looking stuff in it on the curb beside it, so maybe somebody dumped it? The box and chicken were gone in the morning, so maybe/hopefully someone with fewer bird dogs than me took it in before it froze to death.
OH I forgot the best part. Right after I parked I called Dad, because if I'm going crazy and hallucinating chickens in my street, I want someone else to know about it.
Me: "Dad I almost ran over a chicken that was running across the street!"
Dad: "Did you ask it why?"
In other news:
I have been thinking a lot lately, about a lot of things. Like how I created this blog to talk about writing, and how I'm supposed to be working on either a)querying the old book or b)writing a new book or c)both, you slacker, and how I'm doing none of those things. Why haven't I been doing them? As much as I want to roll my eyes at myself for saying it, I think I am burned out.
So I've spent the past two months "rewriting my query" (translation: doing nothing of the sort) and painting baseboards and decorating Christmas trees and getting my hair dyed shiny red...
Holy gigantic forehead, Batman!
...and going to bed early and re-reading all my favorite series (Mercedes Lackey, I love you) and basically acting like I was no sort of writer at all. And I cannot tell you how nice it was, once I got past the whole "how can I be a professional writer if I can't even survive the query process without losing it?" guilt. And today there was a breakthrough. I worked on my query--and I didn't want to barf. And then I thought about rewriting the beginning of TDYK, and still didn't want to throw up.
Progress!
I'm still not itching to dive into a new book, even though I need to. I've got an idea for a short story I think I'll tackle first, and while I'm doing that (or after, depending on my multi-tasking abilities) I'll give TDYK another go and get it out there again. Because that book is awesome, dammit, and I'm not ready to give up on it.
And I'm glad I feel that way again.
In the meantime, I'm glad I took a break from it (and I know K was glad of the break from my freaking about it), and I'm glad I took the time to do some "non-productive" things, too. (hint: when people say that writers must be readers? It's not just because you can learn what does/doesn't work from a published book. It's because reading something you love can remind you how awesome it is to create your own stuff, too. True fax.)
And to get back to the whole blogging about writing thing, I'm not sure how I'm going to do that. Maybe I'll post short stories? Or snippets of whatever I'm working on? Or annoy you by babbling about books I love? It'll be something book related, and I want to try to do it on a regular basis. Maybe I'll even do something painfully cutesy and alliterative...Writing Wednesday? (Ah, cutesy alliteration. Never stop making me want to hurl.)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
guess she gave you things i didn't give to you
I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I'm basically a gigantic dork. Like, huge.
I'll pause a minute so you can reign in your shock.
Ok, so yesterday K went to give blood and I got a little bored, so I texted her this:
I'll pause a minute so you can reign in your shock.
I want your blood, Sookeh, I mean, K-eh!
But then something happened and I couldn't stop and, well, I think I'll just let you see what happened.
Your blood should be mine! Bill cannot even spell your name.
Don't make me step in and (permanently) end this, boys.
...You're going to put on a sterile pair of gloves first, right?
Oh, I've got a glove. But it's not for my hands.
I'm sorry.
(and yes, I amused myself so much that I almost choked on my own spit. CLASSY.)
Thursday, August 18, 2011
won't you lay hands on me
So K has a couple annoying habits, like never putting away her shoes or leaving the lid of the ice cream container in the freezer after she eats the last of the ice cream. But she also has this habit that is not at all annoying, which is buying me random presents.
Did I mention this habit is not at all annoying?
Yesterday I came home to find a Hayao Miyazake movie I hadn't seen (Castle in the Sky, which so far is, um...better than The Cat Returns, which was the worst Miyazaki movie I've ever seen. So that's something?) AND one of these:
Specifically the red one.
Yes, it's a particularly loud squeaky dog toy, but it reminded K of Zeke, and is CUTE, and I love him. Unfortunately, so did the two residents of my house who felt that this toy was designed, and meant for, them (nevermind the fact that K got each of them a toy, too), and proceeded to do anything in their power to get it.
Especially Beau. Just watch:
Did I mention this habit is not at all annoying?
Yesterday I came home to find a Hayao Miyazake movie I hadn't seen (Castle in the Sky, which so far is, um...better than The Cat Returns, which was the worst Miyazaki movie I've ever seen. So that's something?) AND one of these:
Specifically the red one.
Yes, it's a particularly loud squeaky dog toy, but it reminded K of Zeke, and is CUTE, and I love him. Unfortunately, so did the two residents of my house who felt that this toy was designed, and meant for, them (nevermind the fact that K got each of them a toy, too), and proceeded to do anything in their power to get it.
Especially Beau. Just watch:
So now Zeke2 is safely on top of my dresser with Zeke1, taunting the dogs with their fleecy bodies and squeaky insides. From now on, just call me the Dog Torturer.
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