Renee Miller's Blog, page 24

Writers Are Weird, and We Like Butterflies

So, THE LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY is officially “out there” and ready to buy. I’m excited and nervous, again, but ...
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Writing, Focus, and Some Other Shit

I don’t know about the rest of you writers out there, but
having projects “in progress” is both satisfying and frustrating for me at
once. First, I’ve got shit rolling, so that’s good. But then if I can’t get to
said shit, my mind doesn’t want to focus on anything else.



The house renovations are coming along. We’re down to the
wire and the floors are almost finished. God, I wish I wasn’t moving. The place
looks real nice. Real nice. Since I cleared out pretty much half of what we
owned, it might have stood a chance at staying clean too. Sigh.



Anyway, all I have left to do is cleaning the garage walls
and floor…maybe painting too, replace a light fixture, a door knob or two, and
get a damn plumber to replace the tub and shower fixtures, and a bit of
cleaning and voila! Ready to sell.



Why am I telling you this boring nonsense? Well, in about a
week, I won’t have to go over to the house for entire days to work on all this
crap, because it’ll be done. That means, I can get at the three WIPs I’ve
started, but haven’t been able to really get at.



I’ll also be able to edit a WIP titled “I Do… and Other Lies
We Tell” and decide just what I’m doing with it. This is an old one, and it’s
close to my heart for reasons I’ll keep to myself. So, with all the extra time
on my hands, I figure I might get sidetracked by Netflix and Candy Crush, and
the only way to avoid that is to have a reason to finish a certain amount of
work each day.



So I’m going to share a bit of a WIP each week here on The
Edge. That way, I have to have something fresh and new at least polished enough
to show everyone. This week, it’s Chapter 1 of “I Do.” Next week, I’m hoping to
share a bit of either NEFARIOUS or DIRTY TRUTHS.



So, here you go. And when you’re done reading or skipping
over the chapter, care to share some of your tips for staying on track and
focused?

PS: I'll be phasing out this blog, because as many of you know, I've been testing out the Wordpress platform and it works much better for me. Instead of running the same blog here and there, I've had to make a choice. I hope you'll all follow me over to Wordpress, where it will be brighter, but still the same old Edge. Clive's over there now getting the bar ready.



 



I DO…AND OTHER LIES WE TELL: CHAPTER 1



April, 1966



Ronny was an outcast at school: twelve years old and he
couldn’t read or write. When he told the teacher how the letters looked to him,
she sucked her lips in and made a whistling sound. He hated when she did that,
it looked like she might suck her whole face into her mouth. “Ronny,” she
touched his hand and he recoiled as if burned. “You are dyslexic: I’m afraid
you can’t learn with the other kids.”



Dys—What the hell was that? He’d never heard of anything so
stupid. Then they put him in the class with the retards.



When Ronny gave his dad the note she’d written, the old man
flipped out. He took him behind the woodshed and gave him ten lashes with the
old horsewhip for being ‘stupid and lazy.’



At school it became much worse than a simple lashing. Ronny
got into fights with the jocks that made fun of him. Then he began stealing
smokes and booze from the little store down the street. Instead of going to
class he got drunk and hid out behind the football field. He’d watch the other
kids mingle and play stupid games and the girls flirt, but they never flirted
with him. They kept as far as possible, as though Dys—whatever, was contagious.



The teachers never reported his absences; retards weren’t
expected to come to school every day. Ronny had done this all year. Now after
getting into a fight with Garret O’Brien—who at one time had been his
friend—he’d been suspended. His father knew about it because his mother had told
him days before when she rolled her fat ass to the phone booth on the corner.



Sometimes Ronny thought she lived to see Warren whip the
boys. His older brother, Harry, moved away a couple of years ago, leaving Ronny
and Arnie the last at home. Arnie was Mom’s favorite, always kissing her ass.
Rarely did she rat him out unless he had really annoyed her.



Pulling on his pants Ronny struggled to wake up, his eyes
droopy and his head fuzzy. His dad came home today and he had to be up and
ready. He groped in the darkness for his shirt, finding it bunched beneath the
curtain that served as the wall to his room, a corner of the family room which
was part of the larger room that made up the entire main floor of the small
house. The other side of the room held a chipped and burn marked table, a few
mangled cupboards, with doors missing here and there, and a fridge and stove
jammed in side by side. Until Arnie moved out, this corner was all he’d have.
His dad had made the two bedrooms upstairs from one larger room, and they could
only fit a bed and a dresser in each. Arnie and Ronny fought too much to share
one bed according to their mother, so Arnie, being the older of the two
brothers, got to have his own room, forcing Ronny to sleep in the living room.



His mom told him he wasn’t going to school. He was relieved
because he hated school, but nervous. Where were they going?



“You almost ready?” his mom barked from the kitchen. She’d
been up for a while, and the room reeked of cigarette smoke.



Ronny didn’t ask any questions when she’d told him he’d be
leaving, although he would love to know where his dad was taking him, he didn’t
want to go to school if he could avoid it. “Yeah, just about.”



Hearing the door close, Ronny moved the stained yellow
curtain and stepped out. His dad came in, threw his duffel bag on the floor and
stared at him. “Well boy,” he mumbled, the cigarette between his lips muffling
his words. A long, curving ash hung precariously on the end of it, as though
terrified to incur his father’s wrath by falling off. “What have you got to say
for yourself?”



“Garret called us hillbillies. He said Mom was your sister.”



Warren Simpson went white, then red, and Ronny knew he’d
said the right thing.



“He called us hillbillies? His daddy may run his own
business but that fucker drinks like a fish and lays into his old lady every
night.” He flicked his cigarette onto the floor.



His mother sighed but didn’t haul her body off the chair to
clean it up. She didn’t clean much of anything. Their house smelled of stale
cigarette smoke and salami. They never had salami and Ronny found the smell
disturbing.



“I know, and I told him that. But then he punched me and I
lost it.”



Warren waved him away. “Well, you don’t need schooling
anyhow. I got you a job, so you can help us out round here.”



Ronny froze. A job? This wasn’t what he expected.



“Pack your shit. You’re going today.”



“Where? Why do I need to pack?”



“You want a lashing boy?”



“No sir.” Ronny turned to his room and gathered some clothes
out of the milk crates that served as his dresser.



His dad greeted his mother, fondling her breast and
squeezing her lumpy ass before looking back. “Willie Baker has a spot for you
on his farm. You’ll stay there and he’ll send your pay to us.”



“What about me?” Ronny couldn’t see working for nothing.
That didn’t sound fair.



“What about you?”



“I’ll need money if I’m staying there won’t I?”



Warren sighed, looked at the ceiling and then back at Ronny.
“You’ll take what I give you, and not a cent more. You little bastards have
lived off us and given your mother and me nothing but aggravation. You owe me
more than what you’ll make at Willie’s.”








“Yes sir.” Ronny didn’t argue. He’d have to go no matter
what happened. No point in getting a lashing in the deal.



“Not that you’ll ever get anything better than farm work.
Just be happy Willie’s willing to let a retard work for him.”



No matter how many times he heard them, the words stung, he
was not a retard, he knew he wasn’t. Stupid teachers just didn’t know how to
teach him. “What about school?



“You don’t need school. Can’t learn nothing anyhow. Just get
your shit so you’re ready to go. Willie is waiting on us.” Warren turned back
to his wife. “Get upstairs Ethel, you’ve got a little job to do too.”



Ethel giggled and heaved herself off the chair, leaving
behind a permanent imprint of her ass in the stained brown velour cushion.



Ronny’s stomach turned as he watched them go up the small
set of stairs that led to their room. Each time his dad returned from the road
he had to listen to the two of them going at it up there. Sometimes it got so
bad that Ronny snuck out for hours, knowing when they finished, both would stay
up there and sleep. How his brother could stand being so close to that he
didn’t understand. Sometimes he considered telling his dad about the other men
who slept in that bed, but he wondered if he didn’t already know; his mother
always had money and his dad never asked about it.



His first memory of a stranger in his house dated back to
when he was three. Ronny knew because that was the year he got a bike for his
birthday, the only bike they bought him. Red with white fenders and too big for
him, but perfect for a six-year-old. It became Arnie’s bike until Ronny grew
big enough to ride it. By then Arnie had bent the front wheel and the chain
kept falling off.



Ronny thought of the first man as he listened to his parents
thumping around upstairs. His mother hadn’t tried to hide a man she introduced
as Frank. Ronny had stared at him; he didn’t know what to say to a stranger.
Frank ruffled his curly black hair and followed Ethel up the stairs where they
made the same noises his parents made each time his father returned. Soon
after, he realized what those sounds were and never went upstairs again. The sight
of his mother’s ass in the air, and that man behind her, burned forever in the
darkest part of his brain.



Ronny took his bag outside, no point in staying and
listening to them now. Sitting on the tiny front porch, he watched the sun peek
over the horizon behind the house across the road. Still damp from last night’s
rain the dirt that covered the grey siding appeared black. Dust and grime
covered every house on their dingy little backstreet. The town of Beverley must
have thought them too poor to care about paved roads, so they never fixed the
potholes that littered the street, instead filling them with gravel and sand
that blew up as cars passed through.



Donaldson Street, or ‘Loser Lane’ as Garrett called it,
joined the main drag and people had to turn down it to get to the local arena
which made it busy through the winter and spring months. From the porch, Ronny
could see the grocery store. He watched a woman unlock the doors and disappear
inside. Another day. He didn’t know if that made him happy or not. Ronny knew
that he wanted out, far away from this town and his family. He hated them all,
and he hated himself for it.



The only friend he’d had left was now his enemy. Though
Garret had always been cruel, Ronny didn’t like it so much now that he was on the
receiving end. When they started school this year he was different. Garret had
changed. Moody and quick to anger, Garret not only started fights but he was
mean to everyone. Ronny hadn’t seen much of him over the summer, he had to help
at the house and Garret had been put to work at his parents’ restaurant.
Neither boy had enough time or energy to go to the other’s house anymore.



Picking up a knurled stick that lay on the ground next to
the step, Ronny made circles in the dirt and thought about the changes in
Garrett.



On the first day of school Garret didn’t speak to him until
last class and then only to ask if he was going straight home.



Ronny shrugged. “The old man’s gone, so I suppose I’ll go to
the tracks.”



“You got anything to drink?”



“A little, but you don’t like it.” Garret had tried whiskey
last summer and turned so green Ronny was sure he’d hurl. He didn’t, but never
asked to try anymore.



Garret tilted his chin and glared at Ronny. “Maybe now I do.
You going to share or not?”



“Sure,” Ronny didn’t want to share his last bit, but if it
got Garret talking again he would. “I got some smokes too.” The old man dropped
a whole pack in the driveway before he left. “You want some?”



“Maybe,” Garret turned around in his seat, the discussion
was over.



That afternoon they met at the old railroad tracks. The
rails were covered in grass and weeds and they no longer used it for trains but
kids wanting to hide from the adults found it useful. On one side all you could
see were trees and dense brush and on the other, the poor streets of Beverley.
Ronny’s side.



Garret spoke little, smoked a few cigarettes and left
without warning. Things got worse between them after that. Garret didn’t speak
unless he wanted a drink or a smoke and when they put Ronny in the retard class,
he ignored him altogether.



At least I don’t have to see that faggot again. Ronny
frowned and dropped the stick; he wouldn’t see any of them. That was worth
being sent away. He wondered why his dad didn’t send Arnie; the lazy fuck could
use some hard labor. All he did was lay around and bark orders. When their dad
came home, he disappeared. Ronny wasn’t sure where he went, but he came back
wasted, with red-rimmed eyes and slurred speech. Who was the retard here? Maybe
they all were. Maybe Garret was right.



Hearing footsteps in the house he stood an instant before
the door opened and his dad came out buttoning his shirt, his wiry black hair,
like Ronny’s, mussed up and standing on end in spots. Ronny wished that they
behaved like other parents, not as though they were horny teenagers. Christ, by
forty, people should be able to control themselves. Not his parents.



“You ready?”



“Yeah.” He wasn’t really, but he didn’t argue with the old
man if he could avoid it.



“Let’s go then.”



Ronny followed his dad to the truck; a 1955 Chevy Cameo that
Ronny figured hadn’t seen a mechanic since they’d driven it away from the
dealership nearly ten years ago. His dad parked the rig at the company’s lot
and drove his old beaten up rust bucket around town. It’s good on gas, his dad
had said, new cars were made to consume as much as possible; one of the
government’s conspiracies to keep the little man down. Ronny figured they’d be
poor no matter what the government did, but again he never argued with his dad.
Though embarrassed to be seen in the old beast, its teal blue cab rattling and
its wooden box on the back threatening to collapse under its own weight as they
drove, there was no avoiding it. He slumped down while his dad turned the key.



Sliding down the seat, Ronny frowned when his pants stuck
and rode up. Duct tape sealed rips in the tan leather seats. When he got out,
he’d have little bits of tape stuck to the polyester, and they would never come
off. The old radio worked when it felt like it. His dad often banged his fist
on the cracked and dusty dashboard to scare it into singing.



“You’ll be respectful to Willie too,” Warren cautioned,
pulling out of the driveway. “None of the bullshit you try at home. You hear?”



Ronny stared out the window. At least at Willie’s he might
not have to worry about the whip. “Yes sir.”



“I’ll pick you up weekends I’m home. You can help your
mother and me with chores, then you go back. You work hard and Willie said he’d
give you a room in the house.”



“I don’t have a room?”



“You sleep in the barn until you prove yourself. It’s better
than nothing. Willie can’t be expected to trust a retard, you show him that you
won’t hurt nothing and he’ll let you in the house.”



Ronny digested this, his stomach queasy at the thought of
sleeping in a barn with the animals. He should have figured out that something
in this arrangement would put him in his place. He was a stupid retard; not
safe to be around normal people.



The rest of the way to Willie’s farm Warren was silent.
Ronny watched the old houses fade as they drove north out of town, replaced by
muddy fields with a touch of muted green here and there. The sun brightened the
pale blue sky, but large fluffy clouds drifted in front of it now and then. The
rain that had plagued them all month might hold off for just one day. Ronny
hoped that it did. He knew that April always brought rain but he hated the
gloom and the dampness, especially after a long winter.



Thirty minutes out of town, Willie’s property spread over
several acres. He provided the local milk and cheese as well as vegetables in
the summer. He was successful—by small town standards. Willie’s house brimmed
with additions and updates like a mismatched puzzle, different siding here and
there, some rooms round, others square. To Ronny it was ugly, but the locals
thought it grand. Big didn’t always mean better in Ronny’s mind, not when it
didn’t make sense.



They pulled into a long driveway to stop before a crooked
porch. Ronny’s gut tightened and a lump formed in his throat. Before, on the
way there, it didn’t bother him because it wasn’t real yet, now it was. His
parents didn’t want him and though he told himself he didn’t want them either,
it hurt. Willie sat in a rocking chair, coffee in hand. He waved at Warren, not
sparing a glance to Ronny.



“Hey Will.” His dad jumped down from the truck and shook the
older man’s outstretched hand.



Willie looked like a wild man; scraggly grey beard and long
dirty hair to match. His rumpled clothes were covered in shit and he chewed a
piece of hay while talking, his voice mushy, as if he had a mouthful of
marbles. “Thought you wasn’t coming. Almost started chores. This him?”



His dad sighed as though acknowledging Ronny were a burden.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s not dumb at work; he can do what he’s told. Just needs
a lashing now and then to remind him who’s boss.”



Ronny reddened and looked away.



“I don’t think we’ll be needing the whip, right boy?”



Ronny looked back to the old man and shook his head once.



Willie grinned to display four teeth spread out in his
mouth.



Ronny shivered.



“S’okay Warren, we’ll do fine. Marg has a bed ready in the
loft. You prove to be okay and we’ll set a room in the house for you. I got
daughters so I hafta be a little careful. Fair enough?”



“Yes sir.”



Willie didn’t need to worry about his daughters. They
resembled their cattle more than they did their parents. He’d seen them at
school, and decided he’d be better off with the animals. He didn’t want to be
anywhere near the stinking pigs Willie called daughters.



Ronny had no interest in girls anyway. The only girl that
had ever been kind to him was Dana Parson and she was strange, always staring
at the floor and never uttering more than a couple of words. Even then, the
words were so quiet you had to listen close to catch them. She helped out with
the retards and, although only a year younger than Ronny, she was pretty smart.



His dad was getting back in the truck.



Willie stood by as Warren left, then looked at Ronny. “Well
boy, let’s get those chores done and I’ll show you the loft. Like I said, I
don’t use no whip here, but I’ll send you back home sure as shit if you give me
any hell.”



“Yes sir.” Ronny followed him to the barns that covered the
back of the property.



The smell curled Ronny’s toes. Baying from the cattle in the
field beyond, mingled with squawking chickens, making him wonder how he’d ever
sleep among the animals.



That first day Willie worked him hard, but that was okay. He
didn’t call him a retard, and he didn’t yell at him. That was fine with Ronny.
He’d work his fingers raw and if it meant he didn’t have to face the whip
again; he wouldn’t care if Willie ever spoke to him.

Writing, Focus, and Some Other Shit

I don’t know about the rest of you writers out there, but having projects “in progress” is both satisfying and ...
Continue reading

The Legend of Jackson Murphy: Cover Reveal

I'm probably more excited about this than I should be, but I just got to see the cover for Jack, and I actually squeed. It's exactly what I wanted, and then some. The book is almost ready, just have to proof the final version, send it to the formatters and we're pretty much done. Oh, and there's the little matter of blurbs for future books that I have in the works...never mind, not so close to being ready.



The publication goal I've got in mind is the first half of June, and I'm looking for early reviewers, so



anyone who wants a PDF to review, just let me know and I'll send you an ARC.

Anyway, without further ado, here's JACK (front and back). Yes, the bee is significant.









 

The Legend of Jackson Murphy: Cover Reveal

I’m probably more excited about this than I should be, but I just got to see the cover for Jack, ...
Continue reading

Moving Hurts...A Lot

So I haven’t been very good at blogging or keeping up our
website (On Fiction Writing) lately, because Kurt and I decided that we should
sell our house. Seems a great plan, with him across the country and us here,
not seeing him for months at a time, but there is that little thing called “all
the shit that goes with it” that’s a bit of a problem.



I decided that I agreed with the realtor when he suggested I
rent an apartment while we fixed up the house and showed it to potential buyers.
I mean, one look at my shitty housewifery and the dogs and those poor bastards
would run fast and far.



I’ve spent most of April packing up, throwing away and
cleaning. I ripped out carpets, painted and expanded my list of known
profanities by about 20 or so words. I love inventing new swears. It’s
therapeutic. On Thursday, we moved into the apartment, and Jesus shit, that was
an event. First, I hauled all the things we’d need at the apartment to the
entry way. Now, to me it looked like a couple of truck loads, which is what I
told my little brother who was helping, but apparently I have no spacial whatever
at all. Try five loads. My bad.



I dropped a few things, bumped toes (don’t move in flip
flops) and just basically bruised up my entire body, but I got moved. Oh, and
let’s not forget the metal bar that slingshot into my nose. That was awesome.
Even better, I had to wear a Band-Aid on my nose for days. It was hot.



Anyway, all I have to do now is clean up the yard, keep the
grass cut, clean the house, possibly paint one more room, haul away all the
garbage, and then we can list the house. That’s not much. I figure by June 1st,
things should be almost back to normal, and all my wounds will have healed.
When I don’t have all that extra work, my 10 trips up and down this apartment’s
asshole flight of stairs, so I can take the dogs out, won’t be such a big deal.




But it hasn’t all been fun and games lately. I’ve been
working hard on THE LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY, and it looks like the June
publication goal is definitely a go. Yay! Because this one was so much fun to
write, I still worry that it sucks. Is that weird? Probably. I’ve had such
amazing feedback on IN THE BONES, that I worry JACK will fall into the second
book slump. We know what that is, right? Where you release a fantastic book out
of the gate, then you lower the bar on subsequent books. Oh man, I don’t want
to be a cliché. Fingers are crossed.



While editing JACK, I’ve also been working on editing LUCKY,
the first in a series of paranormal novels which I will publish under the pen
name, Dawn Franklyn. I decided to use a pen name for clarity’s sake. If you’re
a fan of thriller/suspense, reading my paranormal work thinking you’re getting
the same thing will probably piss you off. The pen name is intended to prevent
that. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy pissing off folks I like. The ones
I don’t like…well I kind of enjoy pissing them off, but that’ll be our little
secret.



So, over the next few months, I only have to sell a house,
possibly move across the country, finish BLIND, a thriller/suspense WIP and
finish NEFARIOUS, the second in the paranormal series. I can totally do that.



What are your summer plans? I bet they’re more fun than
mine.

Moving Hurts…A Lot

So I haven’t been very good at blogging or keeping up our website (On Fiction Writing) lately, because Kurt and ...
Continue reading

Sneak Peek: The Legend of Jackson Murphy

I’m a terrible blogger with my sporadic posts and whatnot. Sorry. I’ve been working hard on editing THE LEGEND OF ...
Continue reading

Cursed or What? My Hell

I’ve never been very suspicious. I write about supernatural shit, and I believe it’s impossible that we’re the only thing ...
Continue reading

Renee’s Life Update: Because You’re Dying to Know What I Do with My Time

 

Writing a book is a lonely endeavor, but publishing a book
is…it’s different. It’s like diving into a crowd of strangers, getting all
scratched up and…shudder…touched, and coming out desperate to return to that
loneliness, but also wanting to jump in again. Despite all I’ve read from other
authors; the advice, the experiences, the emotions and shit involved in selling
one of your books and having the world judge it, the experience of sending one
of my babies out to strangers has been surprising, but in a good way. Well, in
a good, “oh my God, did that skeevy guy just touch my boob, and I think I liked
it but not that much, I think I need psychiatric help,” kind of way.



But first, thanks to everyone for the support and encouragement
I’ve received since publishing IN THE BONES. Sales aren’t anything to boast
about, but they’re steady. I wouldn’t say no to 1 or 200 more. The sales don’t
matter (well, they matter, but not in
the grand scheme of things), because I didn’t expect big sales for this book.
My goal was to use it as the platform from which I’ll launch more work and
prove I can do this thing. The important part for me was what readers thought
of my writing and the story.



And the reviews have shocked the hell out of me. For some
reason, I expected less “awesome” and more “meh.” It’s not that I thought the
book sucked, but I held back a bit in this one. I put story ahead of voice, if
that makes sense, so I didn’t expect readers to…like it. I didn’t expect them
to “get” it. For example, I’ve had a few readers discuss Carroll Albert with
me, and the hatred and disgust in their voices makes my heart sing. When I
created Carroll, the goal was to portray the embodiment of evil and I’m elated
that for some I’ve succeeded.



Another major surprise, and maybe it shouldn’t be but it is,
was that almost every reader commented on the profanity, sex and violence. (Not
in a bad way) A few times a review has been given with a warning: Not for the
faint of heart. This kind of threw me at first, and then I giggled maniacally.
Anyone who’s read my other work knows exactly why I giggled. Those of you that
haven’t read it, I giggled because I actually scaled down the language and
violence for IN THE BONES, when compared to other novels I’ve written and the
sex is practically vanilla. So…that might be interesting later on, like when
they get their eyeballs on THE LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY. Rough language doesn’t
really describe Jack’s vocabulary. And the sex and violence…you’re in for a
treat…or perhaps your worst nightmare. I guess it depends on whether you truly
are faint of heart or not. The Legend of Jackson Murphy is all voice and
character. Well there’s story too, but people walk away remembering Jack. I
hope.



But really this post is about what I’ve been up to that’s
prevented me from updating my blog and keeping up with my OFW articles while completely
losing my fucking mind. Amid marketing In the Bones and prepping Jack for
publication in June, I’ve been doing a shit-ton of (you won’t even believe it)
housework. I’ve been preparing to sell a damn house. Oh my God, I’m such a
hoarder. On top of that, I’m a terrible housewife. The combination means that I
have soooo much work to do before we can slap a For Sale sign on this place. So
far I’ve accumulated a garage full of crap that belongs at the dump, ripped out
flooring in three bedrooms, the hallway and the living room, and painted a
total of four doors and the walls and trim of one bedroom. Still working on the
other two bedrooms. Oh, and I washed ALL THE WALLS. Let me tell you, it’s
easier to paint over the dirt. Man, I hate doing things the “right” way. Right
always means “lots of bullshit work.” Sigh. I also cleared out most of my junk
cupboards and drawers, which is pretty much all of the cupboards and drawers in
this place.



While we prep the house to sell it, the kid and I will be
moving into an apartment. No one wants to view this house with Buttons and
Zippers (aka; my dogs) howling downstairs or the Satanic Bastard cat randomly
shitting on things. So we’re leaving for a while so that once the house is new
again, it stays new. If the house sells, we’ll be starting to plan a move
across the country. Yep. British Columbia, watch out. We’re coming for you.



All this activity drives me nuts. While I’m not an organized
person, I like routine and order in my life. I like knowing what I have to do
and when, and being confident that no one is going to fuck up my shit. The past
couple of months have turned my boring life into chaos. It’s still boring, but
in an unpredictable and exhausting way. 
I bet the move will be fantastically awful. Maybe I’ll write the book
full of profanity to end all books full of profanity as a result. Perhaps I’ll
create the ultimate serial killer…or become one.



When I find the panic attacks starting, I wonder if my reaction
to the everyday bullshit of life is a normal writerly reaction. Does anyone
else get completely freaked out when their schedule is disrupted? Does having
things “up in the air” drive you batshit? How do you focus? I’m telling you,
focus has been very elusive lately. Mostly I just want to sleep so I can wake
up when it’s over.



But just wait until I’m safely ensconced in my northern
hideaway where I know almost nobody and can be the hermit I’ve always wanted to
be. The stories that’ll come then will rock your world, or fuck it. Either way,
you’ll be all “We had no idea you kept this shit in your head, Renee. Get help.”
And I won’t, because that would mess with my muse.



No, I have no idea where this is going either. In other
news, the awesome crunchy-smooshy Katrina Monroe forced me into an interview.
Check it out.



I’ve also agreed to do a blog talk radio interview with Iconic
Radio on Tuesday, April 9 at about 8:00 pm, EST. Tune in, and be amazed or
completely bored. I’m gonna go for somewhat amused and my goal is to avoid
dropping an F-bomb. It’s live. Eep! I might have to lock the dogs in their
crates and do the interview outside to achieve such a thing. You know how
nothing goes wrong and no one needs anything until Mom’s on the phone?



Okay, now that you all know what I’ve been up to, you can go
back to your lives.