Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 167

Valentines Day Stories

I don't know if I have yet written a Valentines Day scene.

I know that in Bound, when Cory is celebrating/mourning the day she actually looked up and saw Adrian in the gas station, Bracken panics for a minute, because he thinks he forgot Valentines Day, and Cory is like, "Yeah, no, doesn't matter."  I'm pretty sure that none of my characters have had a make-or-break scene during Valentines day.  The reason for this is sort of simple, and can be summed up by the shortbread story.  (For those of you who have heard this before, forgive me--I posted it to my yahoo group, m/mmarvelous --feel free to look it up on yahoo and join by the way-- and folks seemed to like it, so I thought I'd go into it more here:-)

So here it is.  The shortbread story--because, I baked shortbread for Mate this Valentines day and the thing is, Mate and I have a history with shortbread:



Twenty-five years ago (yes, people years not dog years, why do you ask?) Mate and I were dating.  We both worked at McDonalds (yup, heard that right too) and, well, he didn't really want to be dating me.  I was sort of a blowback from the fact that we'd both had our hearts stomped on by different people and had consoled ourselves at Denny's until two in the morning, until I thought, "Hey, this guy is MUCH cooler than the schmuck I thought I liked!" and he went, "Well, hell, she's willing to kiss me, I guess."  Anyway, he was my FIRST BOYFRIEND, and I had him for VALENTINES DAY and OMG was I going to do the romantic gesture.
So I baked him Scottish shortbread at a friend's house.  And as I was baking, I started to spike a fever.  103 degrees, no shit.  So I had to call in for work.  Remember-- where we both worked?  And then, although my friends BEGGED me to just wait until the next day, I HAD to drive thirty miles to give them to him.  At work. 
I almost got fired.  Seriously.  If friends at worked hadn't told the manager that I looked like shit, I would have gotten fired.  (I actually DID get fired from that job later, for refusing to wear my hat, but that's another story.)  
Anyway, and Mate, my darling Mate, took one look at that feverish devotion and did the wise thing--ran like hell.  Broke up with me the next day.  No shit.  
Now later I (in Mary's words) culled him from the herd and made him mine with the cunning use of depression weight loss, puppy dog eyes, and a skillful application of stalking, but that was my first Valentines Day, with Mate.  
Now there've been twenty-five since, right?  Some awesome (Monday's--yes, Monday's, because the restaurant wasn't crowded, that's why!)  and some not so awesome (It's what?)  but I guess it all goes back to that first one--inflated expectations and unreasonable fear.  So last night, I baked him shortbread, even though it was a day early, and we went to the movies.  It was sort of atonement, really, for that first day.  This was no muss, no fuss, no thousand dollar gift, no omg this is THE DAY pressure.  We had a really nice time.  
And as for Mate's gift to me?  Flowers (they're pretty!) and a toilet seat.  I'm the only one who uses our bathroom, really (don't ask me why--but if you ever see a big news headline that reads "Fat Woman Crashes Through Floor of Bathroom", do me a favor and don't look at the picture. Please) and the toilet seat in that bathroom was cut to shreds.  He was sort of hurt, really--took me six trips to the bathroom before I realized that it was MUCH more comfortable now--but when I finally got it?  I was suitably appreciative.  Home improvement ain't no small schizz in our house--we both hates it, and a new toilet seat?  Dude--that's big smooch mojo, really.  
So there you go.  The shortbread story.  Valentines Day with Mate and I.  I think the internet summed it up best with this tweet right here:

Shit My Dad Says: "Valentine's day is bullshit. Our DNA demands we fuck each other, so if you need a holiday to talk your wife into screwing 
you, it's over."




So that's it-- Valentines day-- but I do think there is something to be added here.  All of my children were early for one holiday and conceived around another.  Example?  Big T is two weeks early for Christmas--which means he was conceived around Spring Break.  Chicken was a week early for mine and Mate's birthdays--which means she was conceived around Christmas. Squish was early for Easter, which means she was conceived around our anniversary.  There you go.  And Zoomboy?  Well, Zoomoboy was early for Thanksgiving.  His birthday's on November 15th.  You do the math.  


By the way-- I'm writing a story to this song.  It's heartrendingly beautiful:

Real Teachers Never Stop Teaching

About three weeks ago, I was surprised to see that my alter ego--the one who used to teach in the really difficult school district with people who were not necessarily kind to anyone who stood out--was called a pornographer in the press by an administrator she had never met.  He was taking credit for ridding his school district of all the evil teachers.  She was one.

I was not amused.

None of it was true--not his presentation of himself as sort of a bureaucratic John Wayne (because dudes, anyone who was my confidant in this matter at all would tell you that all they had to do to get rid of me was to LET ME COME BACK so I could quit instead of be fired!), not his presentation of my work as pornography (the fact that it is NOT is well covered material, both legally and morally!), and not his insinuation that I "had students read" pornography as some sort of assignment.  (And if Monty Python hadn't done a first rate send up of that idea, believe me, I'd jump in and have my fun.)  It was all crap, and he got to bluster to the press and I got to sit there and think, "Really?"

Now, of course my FIRST inclination (and I'm always better off when I ignore these) was to spray bomb "LIBELOUS PIGFUCKING BUREAUCRAT" on his car--and while that's still a fantasy I'll use to entertain myself, I don't suggest anyone else actually perpetrate that particular vandalism either. (And, unlike what this man said about ME, this epithet is true, as long as you understand that the word "pigfucking" is used an intensifier, and not an actual description of how the upper echelon powerless administrator who lies in print spends his spare time.)  Anyway, I sat back, let things take their course, and allowed the universe to present me with an alternative idea.

As it turns out, my deep and abiding (and oft-tested) faith that "karma works" kicked in here.  No, bird shit didn't peel his paint job, nobody caught secret tape of him having a drug-fueled gang-bang with monkeys and rent boys, and there were no mysterious accidents involving his nether limbs and farm equipment.  It seems that he's going to have to wait for his own sign that libelous bureaucrats are NOT awarded 72 virgins and a Cadillac Coupe deVille upon departure from this mortal coil--this sign was all mine.

And it was beautiful.  Meet Matty.  He and his beloved, Brad, have kept up a lovely blog chronicling young love in a country that's rather unfriendly to their particular brand of it, and they are witty, charming, and just about as old as Mate and I were when we embarked on OUR adventures.  Matty got to blog about unlikely heroes--and what he said about my work and what it meant to him made me cry--as the libelous pigfucking bureaucrat did not, actually.  Nothing the crumbling clay fist of faux-power had to say about me or to me--whether it was on a public forum or in private-- actually MEANS anything to me, in any sense of the word.  But what this articulate, poetic kid had to say?  That meant the world.

Karma works.  Libelous pigfucking bureaucrats are going to live small, circumscribed lives, where the shit they spew into the either is the only thing they get to see, smell, or taste, and all of their world will be colored by their ignorance.  They will never know the beauty of seeing that something they have done has  LITERALLY made the world a better place--they will only know the drudgery of pretending they have that sort of power at all.  I'm going to take moments like Matty's blog post, and letters that people--wounded and torn people--have written to me about how good writing--sometimes MY writing--heals. These moments are going to reassure me that no matter what libelous bureaucrats have to say about me, I will continue to teach--and teach things of importance, and not just what looks good on a bubble test--for probably the rest of my life.

Karma is a beautiful thing.

NEXT TIME????????

Okay-- So Chicken is learning how to drive.  It's not pretty.


"Chicken, you ready to drive to school today?"

"No."

"Seriously-- your instructor is going to be here Saturday.  You up for it?"

"No."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Dammit, get in the car.  I know you know how to back out."

"Fine."

"See, that's not so... okay, slow down, slow to  stop... ungh... good.  Now go forward.  A little BUT NOT TOO faster good.  Now slow to a stop.  Now go forward.  Good.  We're turning left here.  Now get in the left lane.  Now slow to a stop STOP there's a car there."

"I could SEE that, mom!"

"Right.  Yeah.  My  bad.  Okay.  Now slide into the outside left turn lane here.  Good.  Now stay on the OUTside... good.  Good.  Don't want to cut that too close."

"I hate being on the inside lane."

"Good.  Good.  Wait, wasn't that the turn for the back way to your school?"

"You didn't tell me to take it!"

"But you know how to... I just thought... never mind.  Okay.  Left hand turn lane here.  Inside."

"I hate inside turns."

I swallow.  She does.  She sucks at them.  Everytime she's made one, she's threatened the island in the middle or the person in the inside left turn of the oncoming lane.  I look at the traffic--our light JUST turned red, so we've got some time.

"Do you want me to drive?"

"YES!"

Beat.

"WELL THEN GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR!  WAIT!  PUT IT IN PARK FIRST!"

And we run around the car.  And run into each other, bounce off, run around each other and then...

"Fuck!!!"  She weighs 150, and I weigh twice that--YES she's moved the fucking seat!  "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..."

I slide the seat back, get in, shut the door, get belted, get the car out of park, and sit, my heart pounding in my chest, while Chicken dissolves quietly next to me.

"What?" I ask, stepping on the gas as traffic moves.

"We ran into each other!  Next time, I'll go around back and you go around front."

My whole world narrows down to two words.

"NEXT TIME??????????????"


God save us if there's a next time.

And speaking of NEXT TIME.

Big T spends most of his time in the back bedroom.  We're all used to him doing that.  Too used to him doing that.

On Tuesdays, I take Squish to dance, and leave Zoomboy, Chicken, and Big T at the house.  Then Mate arrives and takes Chicken to her dance class (in a different place) and Zoomboy does his homework while Big T lurks in the back bedroom.

I got home on Tuesday, and Zoomboy ran out to meet me.

"Is Big T home?" he asked, and my eyes did this:  0.0

"Did he get home after I left?"  He'd been late from school.

"No.  You left me alone."

"Ohmygod!"

"I did my homework."

My heart is thundering in my ears and my vision is going black.

"You didn't burn the house down!" I say.  "You are SUCH a good boy!"

"Mom, we don't even keep any matches!  And I didn't cook any food."

"You are such a good boy!"  *pound pound pound*

"Yeah.  Here mom.  Let's write down your phone number, so the next time this happens, I can call you."

"NEXT TIME?????????"


So, I'm sitting and writing, and next to me is the remains of part of my dinner--cucumbers in low fat dressing with bacon-flavored soy bits on them.  The dressing is a favorite of the families--Newman's Own Sesame Ginger, and there's a lot left in the bottom of the bowl.

Big T walks by and picks it up.  "Mom, can I have this?"

"Uh, sure?"

And he drinks it.  DRINKS IT.  I can hear his throat working as he gulps it down.  He puts the dish in the sink, pleased with himself.

"Next time, I'm going to have to chop up some vegetables to put in it," he says.

Oh Jesus.  Next time.

Repressed White People

Mate's grandmother fell ill this week (i.e., was prescribed the wrong medication for a uti which basically hastened her decline, the signal of which was an event in which she RAN around the house when she hadn't actually WALKED for over a year and talked to invisible cats) and she has entered final stage hospice care.  On the one hand, this is a somber event, and Mate is saddened, as are we all.  On the other hand?  He's watched me do this four other times--and we're repressed white people.  We save our grief for our quiet moments in private, and in the meantime, we watch the weirdness that comes with meetings and partings of human beings on and off of this mortal coil.   Things such as:
*  Mate's grandmother's dementia.  His poor mother was trying to explain to the doctors over the phone that this wasn't normal.  The doctors finally told her to bring Grandma in, and Grandma was seeing giraffes on the way there.  Mate's mother was like, "Uhm, yeah.  Not normal.  Can we maybe see about this?"  
*  Mate's grandmother's mantra:  "I'm 92 in a week."  And there you go.  She has seen the finish line, it is 92, and she's at peace with that.  As sad as we will be to see her go, we all get that 92 is a perfectly respectable finish line.  We're good with that.  We hope we make it that far in our own personal races, with as much grace and dignity.
*  Our own children, learning the ways of all repressed white people-- the things not to mention.  Things such as?  "Grandma's going to be 92?  That's only 48 years older than you!"  and "If you don't get yourself together, mom, we'll go to your funeral too and we'll be very sad."  I'm glad that the death of the rat and the cat and a couple of grandparents has given my children a very pragmatic perspective on death--but I really hope they can learn the grave demeanor expected of their fellow repressed white people as they grow.  That kind of pragmatism could have my own parents haunt me with their disapproval.  Literally.  
*  Chicken and I still have an active list of songs she's supposed to play at my funeral.  I still refuse to see the list she wants played at hers, because if I ever have to play that list, I'll dig her up and kill her twice.  
*  Texting from friends can be both inconvenient and frickin' hilarious as you attempt not to get maudlin or sad in your conversation with relatives.  Example?  As Mate and I sat and talked to his Aunt--a very sweet woman with a sense of humor but a deeply religious mien--I realized my best-buddy was texting me picture after picture of hot men in compromising positions as I sat in the lobby of the hospice home.  I kept my smirk to myself and told her that we were doing something serious here--but since I'm usually snarky, she thought that I was being mock-serious and not serious serious.  Hence, when Mate was showing pictures of the young-uns on my phone, there was another text.  Now, when there's a text on my phone and I'm on another app, a banner comes up at the top of the phone, telling you what the text is.  Hence, while Mate was showing pictures of Squish and Zoomboy and Chicken and Big T, the banner at the top reading, "You suck!"  Mate and I met eyes and tried very hard not to giggle like third graders.
Now, I'm sure someone reading this post will look at it, and think, "These people are incredibly callous and cold!"  But the like I said, I've done this before.  You don't moan and grieve a long life, well lived, and you don't try to put paid to past difficulties with the soon-to-be deceased.  You allow them to pass, and let them know their lives were important to you, and that they will be missed.  
It's funny, in a way.  I wrote a story for Christmas this year called Puppy, Car, and Snow, in which a mother-in-law is absolutely convinced that her son's boyfriend is not good enough for her.  At the end of the story, the two lovers are very publicly committed, and the mother-in-law unbends and welcomes the new member into the family.  Now, I've gotten a few bad reviews on this story, because some people seemed to feel that mother-in-law should have been punished.  I think those people must have been very young.  A long time ago, this woman made me cry--and made me cry a lot.  I was not good enough for her grandson, and I never would be, and a thousand sly and painful things were said outside my husband's hearing that made me acutely aware of what a disappointment I was.  
But that was a long time ago.  
In the intervening time, I've proven myself.  My children have grown up kind and respectful and smart and funny, and cognizant of their place in the world and of the people who have come before and of their duty to do something worthwhile in their time on the planet.  This woman learned to love me, and I learned to forgive, and I'll grieve her passing.  People have been telling me since December that my stories continue to teach, and I hope that the subtle lesson in this story was not lost on everybody.  What I said to my husband's grandmother tonight was simple-- a kiss on the cheek (her head is tilted almost parallel with her right shoulder--it can not straighten, to the point where her right lung is crushed in her ribcage and her leg will not work underneath--a kiss on the cheek is an awkward thing) and a promise to tell the kids she said hi.  But it was the result of both of us, over the last 18 years, not "punishing" a bad guy, but learning to make the small and subtle adjustments that are required to maintain a functioning family.  While we did that, I like to think we truly came to love each other, and I'm proud of that.  
So no-- we didn't grieve, we didn't wail, we didn't ask "Why? Oh God, Why must this person who has lived this long and fruitful life leave the world?!"  (It always surprises me when people ask this--I should think that anyone who has ever raised a cat or a rat or a hamster or a fish would realize the inevitable truth.)  We said we hoped we'd see her later--and we might, because she's feisty!--and then we said goodbye.  And we tucked our grief deep in our chests and we took the joy in what we had.  Sometimes, being a Repressed White Person isn't such a terrible thing after all.  

Riding In Cars With Children

Sometimes, listening to my family talk is like living in a movie with AWESOME satirical dialog--except you can't rewind and listen to it all over again, no matter how badly you want to.  I was going to try to capture some of it here, but, well, forgive me.  It was a huge deluge of great and funny kid bits, and unfortunately,  I think there maybe be silken, hand dyed snippets of weirdness that are floating around my brain that will never truly become something.  It's like being saturated in the potential for something really wondrous... these wonderful moments are just there, on the tip of my brain, ready for the taking, but they get sort of soddened over by the mundane moments that end up here.

*  Chicken went to a basketball game with her father and then texted me--she'd seen her Chemistry teacher tending bar, and she was embarrassed.  I told her not to be embarrassed for her teacher--be embarrassed for her country.

*  Zoomboy got a dictionary from his school today-- one of the cool kind with the illustrations.  On the way home from school he looked up human extinction and filled us all in on the gory details.  Apparently global warming is a threat.  He has not yet looked up zombies or curse words.  We're waiting.

*  Squish wakes up every morning and comes into the kitchen where I'm working, and thrusts her head under my arm like a cat looking for pets.  She looks up at me with her blue eyes scrunched and sleepy above her freckled little cheeks and tells me what she dreamed the night before.  I couldn't tell you what she actually dreams-- they're actually very confused--but I could look at her talking forever.

*  Big T came home a little nonplused. He's trying to put together a film for film class and was told by his film teacher that he had the general aura of a young Woody Allen.  0.0  You've seen the pictures, folks--YOU tell me how that works.

*  My newest addiction has been Words by Post with Mate-- he's been KICKING MY FRICKIN' ASS.  So frustrating.  The thing is, I always go for the interesting word-- "covey" instead of "convey", when "convey" can be done for six-bajillion points and "covey" is like, ten.  I've sort of gotten over that--but I still don't see the strategies he does.  I've got the vocabulary, he's got the ability to unscramble letters, which is something I've NEVER had. But television time is fun.  I've got my knitting, and my phone, and sometimes my Kindle.  ADHD has never been relaxing.

* Mate still wants me to go see a King's game.  I still want to stay home and knit.  I may have to go-- he's looking so disappointed every time I say now.

*  This was spirit week at the grammar school.  Yeah, I don't know what they're celebrating--who cares, it's January/February and they're SO glad to be doing something fun.  Yesterday was pajama day.  Today, we put Squish in her little Victorian Witch's outfit, a shawl, and baby powder in her hair and called her 100 years old.  For Zoomboy, today was "crazy hair" day, and Chicken was impressed as I was giving ZB his faux-hawk.  "Geez, mom, that's some SPECTACULAR hair glue!"  Yeah, well, only the best to subdue my own savage squirrel!

*Every night I sing to the little kids.  Some nights they get a bonus track of Death Cab for Cutie's "You'll be loved!" (video to follow) but mostly, it's Patsy Kline's "Dream a little dream" and John Denver's "Sunshine on my shoulder".  I get bonus points as a parent if I slip in the cat's name as I'm singing.  "Dream a little dream of Steve..."  "Sunshine... on my shoulder...makes Steve happy..."  I never do it the same way twice, and when I was in her classroom before Christmas, I heard Squish brag about this like it was in the benefit's package of being my kid:  "I get one story and two to three songs a night.  Uhm-hhm. And sometimes, even ice cream for dessert."  I think she probably could have leveraged herself into a better company, but I'm not going to tell her that!

*  And finished my anthology story!  WOOT!  This is going to be a joint venture between myself, Mary Calmes, and Andrew Grey. Andrew was the one who came up with the concept: Something went wrong in the tapestry of the three fates.  Then we all took that idea and ran with it.  I like my story--it, like my favorite stories, evolved in ways I never thought of.  Hacon (does NOT rhyme with bacon--I was surprised!) and Leif are two of my most awkward, formal heroes--but they are also very sweet.  I also get to do a little bit of eye-humpin' with Thor and Loki, and, uhm... *swoon*

*  And also in the realm of shared projects, I've teamed up with Aleksandr Voinov to write a little novella called Country Mouse.  This was fun-- it started out as a dare, mostly, and I've enjoyed working with Aleks very much.  I'm editing the story today, and I'll have a better idea for it, but I've got to say, working with someone living in England using google docs?  It's a TOTAL RUSH.  You just watch the cursor move across the screen and then you pick up where the cursor leaves off and when you're done you're like, "Oh crap!  This is COOL!"  It's like an intellectual amalgam of shit you wouldn't have thought of adding.  I loved it.  And I got a virtual tour around London, just WRITING it, which was so much fun!  (You guys all KNOW that must have turned my key, right?)  So that will be out sometime in March, along with Super Sock Man.

*  And I'm going to leave it like that for the moment, and ditch out, leaving a video for your perusal.

So this is "You'll be loved"-- the video was cut from the SPN fandom that likes all the eye-humpin' between Dean and Castiel... got to admit, it gives me a giggle and a tickle myself.  And, remember, if nothing else, just hit play and go on with your business and listen to the song:

Bound and Determined...

I KEEL U DED!!!Okay-- so I couldn't help notice that my blog posting has fallen off in the last two years.  Now, part of it is that I think my blog posts got more pictures--they're a teeny bit more of a production.  Go me!  And part of it is that all the shit I blogged about at the beginning when it was novel is no longer novel, and, well, I don't want to bore anyone so I don't talk about the farting dog or the baby (who's in Kindergarten--WAAHH!) or those other hella cute things anymore, because, well, there's a little less of them.  And part of it is that, well, now that I'm making my living on the computer, blogging as leisure time is a little trickier.  I want to get AWAY from the computer, not closer to it, which is hard when all my friends are in the little silver box!





So anyway, in an effort not to let my blogging disappear COMPLETELY, I swore I'd get in 12 blogs for January.  My clock says I've got 17 minutes left.  But, dammit, blowing it off now, that's a shitty way to start a resolution, right?

And part of it is that Squish and I have been a little bit sick.  Sick enough to keep Squish home for two days, sick enough for me to fall asleep when she sits on me--and some of that's wonderful.  My cuddle to real life ratio has gone down drastically in the last year, and I've missed it--but that means less time at the computer too--and blogging wasn't the only thing that took a hit today.  My story about the three fates and the entwined lives of Thor and Loki has progressed, but not as far as I'd planned.  For those of you wondering what the hurry is, if I can get it done soon enough, I can spend a week or so working on Quickening--and I've been in a real Lady Cory place, and I'd love to be able to do that.

So this is it-- an emergency blogpost, peppered with some of the best pretty and weirdest cute that has shown up in my phone in the last week.  That ninja bunny?  He's kept me laughing for two days!  I want him on a T-shirt!

And, as I've got six minutes left, I'll leave you with this quote, just overheard on Leverage as I was listening/writing:

"Why's there a nun's outfit without a nun in it?"
"Rapture!"

For some reason, that just seems sublime to me-- I'm gonna laugh myself to sleep:-)

I was... well trying to, you know...

This is me, last night.  Writing, a scene in which my lovers, Hake and Leif, have a sad, painful fight that tests their relationship and reveals more about their vulnerabilities and insecurities than they ever thought possible.  Aaaaaandddd I'm also checking twitter every now and then for updates.

Hm... Rhys just posted a video... okay, I could use a break... and suddenly I'm here:



Gee, Rhys, that's pretty cool!

You like that?  I've got more to show you!

No, no-- I'm trying to write Urban Norse Mythology--pretty Korean pop stars aren't going to do it!

But some of these guys are Japanese!

And I laugh, and I'm tempted, and last year this would NOT have been my thing, so, I tag Elizabeth, who sort of turned me on to Korean pop last year, in order to blame her for making me vulnerable to this time suck and suddenly Elizabeth takes me here...

And here:
And, yes... here!


And I try to write beyond this, because it's pretty, but it's NOT Norse Urban Mythology, and in the meantime, Big T has gone to bed, because it was eleven thirty at night, and Mary texts me, and asks me what I'm doing.  And I tell her I'm turning down Rebel Without a Cause so I can write, and then we're talking about James Dean and Sal Mineo, and how one was bi and the other was gay, and suddenly I'm here:

And Mary starts talking about if I think THEY'RE hot, I should check out Montgomery Clift, and suddenly I'm here:




And OMG--he's HOT!  But he's NOT Norse Urban Mythology, and in the meantime, Rhys has tagged me on Twitter with some more of this:

Which is pretty, and inventive, but I'm TRYING to give Leif some motivation here for being an assclown, and now Elizabeth has told me that I should check out a little bit of this: 


And YES they're pretty, but Hake is trying to explain that he's not going anywhere, and I'm telling M ary that the pretty Korean boys are pretty and Mary is telling me that I should write pretty Korean boys for Elizabeth ...

But... but.. but... but...

I AM TRYING TO WRITE A FIGHT SCENE!!!!!


*pant* *pant* *pant* *pant*  *pant*


"So," texts Mary, (who is probably laughing her ass off), "Who's fighting?"
"Hake and Leif," I tell her.
"How's that going?"
"Wanna see?"
"Yeah.  Gimme a minute."
And I finish it.
"How's that?"  I ask.
"Not bad.  But now I need the resolution."

And I'm writing again, and the pretty Korean boys are forgotten, and suddenly it's 1:30 in the morning.

So yes--if used carefully, the internet CAN be a source of motivation and inspiration, but it's good to be careful, because I gotta tell you, Zoomboy had a 9:00 a.m. indoor soccer game this morning (they tied!) and right now?  My consciousness is ALL about this: 

When in doubt... ask Bruce...

I've had some lovely days to write, and some really productive days doing research.  Unfortunately, they don't really equal a whole lot of words written.  Suffice it to say I'm plugging along, and that I've had a little lull in the usual rattle and hum, and, well, that doesn't really translate into spectacular blogfodder.  So, once again, I'm gonna scattershot it.

*  Mary Calmes, my beloved Mary, texted me into complete submission regarding the next WIP.  I've posted some examples of her work (in the texting department, that is), and since she betas for me with skill and enthusiasm, those texts carry weight.  Even when they're wearing no clothes.  (These texts ARE wearing clothes, but... uhm... it's JENSEN, so we can live with that.










*  My new, non-porny story is posted now right here, HERE,  and in a few days it should have a spot on GoodReads, and if you love it, be sure to go rate it! And I'd REALLY want to thank Jennifer Morris (HappyTwilightFan) for dressing up a picture I took in Monterey and making it look lovely and very relevant to the story.  As soon as she puts it up in her blog, I'll post the link, but in the meantime, I want to show off her cover.  She made it with a picture I sent her, and her own moon and imagination, and I loves it!:-)



*  This out of nowhere:  I really love the word "stabby" because it seems to be an amalgam of "crabby" and, of course, the accompanying gesture that can often come of crabbiness.  However, my vote is still out on this word's cousins, "hurty", "shooty", "strangle-y" and "poisony".


* Mary (aforementioned, my darling and beloved work wife) and I spent two hours doing research and frantic texts in order for me to write two paragraphs of prose about what my hero does on his job.  Speaking of "stabby" and "hurty"... uhm, yeah.  Sometimes this job has it's moments of hard work with NOTHING to show for it.  If it weren't for Mary, I would probably have made poor Hacon a fast food worker instead of an importer/exporter, and that would have made the story VERY different.


*  Oh yeah-- this woman, L.A. Witt said some things I've wanted to say for a very long time.  I literally lick her toes in admiration.  And I want her frickin' water buffalo.

*  And my guy, Chase, is up at Dreamspinner Press.  Which is good. Because the WIP that Mary sexted/begged/convinced me to start when I'm done with my wonderful, fun, subtle, complex mythology story with one of the most heinous cases of deus ex machina EVER in a story, is going to be the sequel to Chase's story.  I want to write all those other sequels too--but I think Dex and Kane are gonna steal your heart in a passionate, first love sort of way when you're done with Chase.  At least I hope so, because they're where my headspace is.

And that's about all...  I wish my life was more interesting than that--or at least outside my body.  We're going to have some trips coming up, and that's gonna be fun to report--but for now?  Off to visit Leif and Hacon, and their interaction with the fates:-)

Oh--and about Bruce?  I was waffling today, what should I do with my day?  And then I heard this song... and the answer was to write.  Because my heart was moved--and that's what you do when your heart is moved.

Decisions, decisions, decisions...

  Okay, Cup o Porn is having their birthday bash this week, and there will be PLENTY of free fiction if you follow the link above.  My offering--both humble and completely safe for work (and can you believe that?  I'm asked to write for a blog called CUP OF PORN and what do I put out?  A legend, with the most oblique sexual descriptions in the history of romance EVER. I'm surprised Marie and Heidi didn't just shoot my fat white ass flat when I sent that in.  I'm an idiot.  We all know this--and here's proof!)  Anyway, When the Sea and Sky Turn to Blood will be out tomorrow, around 11 a.m., CST, and it's free, along with a lot of other nice stuff that people are giving away, so stop by and enjoy!  (And, once again, I will remind you that if the picture says NSFW, and you're at work, DON'T GO THERE!)  For those of you afraid of falling into the porny land mines (and you should be, because I get stuck there all the time and they blow my productivity to hell while stimulating my creativity at the same time which is very uncomfortable for a woman my age) when the birthday bash is over, I think I'll post this story on my website.  It doesn't really have a niche--it is, as Galad once told me, sexy writing (not sexual writing, but writing you do for the sake of art) and not money writing (which is writing you do that's more popular, which often has sex in it!) So, sexy writing goes on the website, writing with sex in it, you have to pay for.  There's a lesson in there somewhere, I just know it.  Now the thing is, it doesn't mean you don't enjoy writing money writing--it just means you don't get to do off-genre stuff with it, like, say, When the Sea and Sky Turn to Blood, or, Dreams of Terrible Brightness.  Money writing can be EXTREMELY soul fulfilling--I mean, for ME, money writing is FUN--joyous, even when it's ripping my heart out and serving it on a platter.  But more people also enjoy having THEIR hearts ripped out with it, and boom!  You make a little money.

So speaking of  sexy writing versus money writing--

I'm trying to decide what to write!

For those of you who doubt me, the thing I'm thinking (ALWAYS) is QUICKENING.  I REALLY want to write Quickening.  Unfortunately, writing now pays my rent.  (Okay, not my rent, or my mortgage or whatever--but it does pay for groceries and utilities and random toys and Easter loot and birthday parties and... you get the idea.)  So that makes Quickening sexy writing (God, I hope so!) and so shall remain my dirty little secret writing when no one is looking.  So, what do I do write that hordes (okay, dozens!) of people are waiting for so that my family may not starve around Christmas?

Well, I've actually got a lot of choices!  I would like very much to write the fourth (and final) installment of Keeping Promise Rock.  It promises to be shorter than the others, and a little bit angsty, but will have a big, wonderful climax that will be SO happy ever after, people might even forgive me for putting Deacon's life in danger in Book 3.  THAT'S looking like a fun write, and I'm DYING to do it!

I'd also like to write the second (and definitely not final) installment in the weird mystery solving career of Patrick and Whiskey.  I have a great title, a great dilemma, and some really wonderful scenes in my head, and THAT'S looking like a fun write, and I'm DYING to do it!

And then there's the steampunk/batman thing I've got going round in my head, with some GREAT complications and this total world building thing going on and THAT'S looking like a fun write, and I'm DYING to do it.

And, although Chase in Shadow hasn't come out, I've got this sequel planned, for one of the side characters--Dex, whom I think everyone is going to adore.  Pain--lots of pain--and one of those romances where your friend is where your heart is and you never knew it.  THAT'S looking like a fun write, and I'm DYING to do it.

Oh--did I mention Aiden and Jeremy from The Winter Courtship Rituals of Fur Bearing Critters?  Yeah-- people want to see the story of the con man and the hometown boy, working at the alpaca fiber farm, and THAT'S looking like a fun write, and I'm DYING to do it.

And there's always my bittersweet dream plans-- Richard Cory and the highland warriors and then there's this guy with a little tiny golden tamarind monkey and plan crashes and undercover detectives and...

Decisions decisions.

I whine a lot about time and deadlines and choices you have to make... but you know what?  Decisions like these?  Make it all worthwhile:-)

Yanno... stuff!

I feel bad, subjecting y'all to those hairy shins for so long (although, I must admit, I sorta like a tangle of hairy shins, visually that is!) so I'm going to blog about inconsequential weirdness for  a few, and try to find a pretty/shiny picture to distract you.  Theryago.  Thor (as played by Chris Hemsworth).  I liked the movie, I think Kenneth Brannagh really wanted to make it totally epic and succeeded, and i think listening to Chris Hemsworth talk was worth the price of admission.  REALLY love his voice--fell in love with him from the moment he played Kirk's dad in the new Star Trek.  *swoon*

But anyway...



*  This is Hello Kitty, in a rainbow outfit.  I dunno why, but I thought she was precious.  Forgive me!



 *  To the right (if blogger/fucker formats right!) are not only a couple of hairy shins, but my two prototype socks (not, repeat NOT the matching socks I knit and whose pattern I documented, which I sent to be photographed) except one of them has been photoshopped to make me look like less like an incompetent moron.  I don't think that was the photographer's intention--I think he thought it was sort of cute, and quaint--nana's homemade socks don't match, get it?  But I have to say that as sort of a representative of my craft, I was more than a little bit embarrassed.  I can live with this picture.  In fact, I LIKE this picture--and I hope anyone who tries to follow the pattern in the story can forgive me if the one on the right in the picture doesn't look like the one on the left!  I assure you that the socks knit up with only one bit of asymmetry-- the fish eye knit/purl pattern on one sock is in the opposite place on the other.  Because I thought it would be cute:-)


Zoomboy greeted me with this, yesterday morning, as he was putting on his shoes:  "Mom, I had a nightmare about a gark.  Alas, he was more aggressive shark than gentle gorilla."  I'm still blinking over that.  It was pretty awesome.




Squish got her teeth worked on--and I got my nerves worked on.  Squish's birth sign is an Aries, and mine is a Libra, and dealing with my stepmom, (although I admire her and love her a lot!) should have warned me that having an Aries baby was going to be a challenge.  It is.  She's absolutely sure that her Libran parents are completely full of shit, do not know what they're talking about, have NEVER known what they are talking about, and if she wasn't telling us where to go in the car or why she can have something to drink when she's still dribbling down her front, she would not be able to live with herself.  *headdesk*  I'm giving her to Chicken during the teen years.  That way, we might BOTH survive.

Chicken got accepted into San Diego Institute of the Arts--where she's going to learn computer animation, and get a bachelors degree in science and... well, be away from me, mostly, but I'm so happy for her.  She's pictured here in the con-dress my stepmom made for her--it's a French Maid's costume, and she looks adorable--and it's VERY anime, and she's thrilled, both with the costume, and with the acceptance.  Of course, both of us are gonna hate that first separation.  It's gonna suck, but my baby's going to go make her dreams come true.  How awesome is that?

And Big T?  Well, bless his heart-- he told us he was taking the bus somewhere today.  He didn't tell us it was to a friend who's in cosmetology school and always looking for someone who wants a $5 haircut.  He looks awesome--and smaller, because baby, that was a LOT of hair!

And other than that?  We went to see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo tonight, and REALLY loved it.  I mean REALLY loved it!  I got that whole art-shiver thing that happens when media gestalt (that combination of actors, script, cinematography, direction, etc.) REALLY kicks in and makes us shake.  Loved it.  Parts of it were disturbing (there is one scene in particular that has been well publicized that I won't go into) but much of it was really really brilliant, even the melancholy ending, which I sort of loved.

And in book news?  Well, I finished the edit of Super Sock Man--and added a couple of scenes that I thought REALLY added to the original product.  One of them was, uhm, REALLY hot, and the other?  Well, let's just say that it makes the fade from Super Sock Man to Chase in Shadow just that much more believable.  Editing isn't always glamorous, but in this case, I felt the ending REALLY needed work--and then I think I made it work, and I was proud.

Also...

I'm working on a story about the three fates... and the descendent of Thor... and a bike messenger in San Francisco and a workaholic business man.  *happy sigh*  My job does have it's stresses, true--but I do love my job!  'Night!