Erika Mitchell's Blog, page 18

W-Knee-40

Long-time readers of my blog (and/or people who traffic me in real life) know that my left knee is kind of a wreck. I mean, from the outside, it’s fine enough I suppose as long as you don’t mind the small arthroscopic scars from the surgery I had last year. On the inside, though? It’s a bigger wreck than any wreck that has ever wrecked.

What’s wrong with it? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

When I first injured it, I went to an orthopedic surgeon who shrugged and said it sounded like a meniscus tear, but that I was too young for a meniscus tear so I should try physical therapy. When the PT didn’t work, I went back and he ordered an MRI and lo and behold, meniscus tear! I rogue one, apparently, that didn’t care how old I was.

We blamed it on my hips being messed up after wearing a boot for a broken toe. I went to a chiropractor, got surgery to remove the rogue meniscus troublemaker, and did my PT. My knee felt great!

That is, until I was carrying laundry up the stairs one day and BAM! Another meniscus tear, this time confirmed by an MRI with contrast right away. My surgeon’s prognosis? My knee is messed up, just keep up the PT, don’t do anything more strenuous than walking, and if it hurts more we’ll do more surgery.

Big. Fat. Bummer. My knee hurt. All the time. A lot. And I didn’t want more surgery if we had no idea why my knee was shredding meniscus like Swiss cheese.

Me, waiting in the exam room for someone to jam a needle into my knee.

At the urging of my friend Jennifer (who is hilarious and has a Tumblr I very much enjoy) I got a second opinion. And you know what? It turns out I’m not doomed to a lifetime of pain and barely being able to walk at the tender age of 28! I just need some injections of synthetic joint fluid and orthotics to correct my legs, which are slightly knock-kneed. That’s been the culprit all along!

Celebration!

Well, except the injections. I got the first one last Thursday and, let me tell you, it’s several different kinds of squicky and uncomfortable. But. BUT! My knee feels SO GOOD. I had COMPLETELY forgotten how good a knee can feel. It’s like someone sprayed WD-40 in my joint and life is smoooooooooooooth.

Let this be a lesson to you: If a doctor doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of what’s going on with you, even if he/she’s great on paper, high thee to a different doctor. STAT. It makes a world of difference!

Put a Pin in Book #3

This is, obviously, Stewie from Family Guy. I did not draw this.

For those of you not following me on Twitter or who haven’t “Liked” me on Facebook…

I FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT OF BOOK #3 OF MY BAI HSU SERIES YESTERDAY!!!

Yep. True story. I typed the last word (which, incidentally, is ‘spy’) on that sucker and then had to run to get my kids. That ending was a real beast, I had to rewrite it three times because I just couldn’t seem to get it right. I knew what I wanted from it, I just had a hard time getting there. To the extent that I was in the worst mood possible Tuesday night after writing 3,000 words in what I knew was the wrong direction. I knew I had to delete everything I’d just done and try again, and it was really ticking me off because I’ve been working on this book for months now and I really wanted that satisfying ending.

The trouble was, I couldn’t seem to find it. I was so irritated about the whole thing (you would be, too! Imagine writing your favorite climax ever and then not being able to figure out how to land the story as a whole. Infuriating!) I prayed about it and, wouldn’t you know? The idea I’d been looking for plopped right into my brain. It was pretty cool.

What’s next for me now? Well, let’s see. I need to go back for an initial rewrite and revision on Book #2, which I finished in February and haven’t touched since then. After that, I work like crazy on my pitch for ThrillerFest, where I’m hoping to land a fantastic agent who likes bad puns as much as I do and will land me a big, juicy publishing contract.

For those of you keeping track, the books are working-titled as followed:

Bai Tide (Book #1, takes place almost right after the events of Blood Money. Bai falls in love, gets tortured in North Korea, and and goes off-roading in an armored school bus)
Take the Bai Road (Book #2, think Mexican drug cartels, a massive conspiracy, and domestic terrorism)
Never Say Bai (Book #3, from Kiev to Manhattan, Bai gets drawn into a fight between a disgruntled ex-spy and nefarious corporation)

These books are a ton of fun, and I think Bai has yet more adventures in him. Now I just need to get someone to pay me vast sums of money for them!

Erika is a Hypocrite

Okay, absolute hypocrite time: There’s a guy next to me at Starbucks right now who’s done nothing on his computer but browse guns and ammunition since he sat down. And he’s making me nervous.

Isn’t that just the height of irony? I mean, come on. A week ago, I was sitting right here researching grenade launchers. This guy’s shopping for deals on a handgun and suddenly I’m Miss Prude, who only browses Pinterest and wears sweater sets while she’s at Starbucks.

Still, I know I’m not a psycho. I have no such reassurances about the hairy, bearded dude next to me with the Russian accent and lumberjack shirt.

It’s probably a good thing I sit in a corner and no one can really see what I’m looking at, isn’t it? Can you imagine how sketchy I’d look? The people around me would be thinking, Oh, sure, she drove here in a minivan, but she’s researching artillery and MTA subway lines! Shouldn’t someone call the authorities? Why isn’t she on some NSA watch list?!

You know, come to think of it, I probably am on a watch list somewhere. I bet the people who check in on me once in awhile are pretty bored with the rest of my Internet activities. I’m on Facebook a lot, and other than that, I’m on Reddit looking at funny memes. Pret-ty boring.

[I feel like I should state for the record that I am a nice lady who stays home with her kids and writes thriller novels for fun. I research sketchy things purely for the sake of my writing. Please don't arrest me.]

Having Earned the Days of Predictable Peace

I have no idea who originally took this amazing photo, but it wasn’t me.

By now, most of you know that Saturdays are my sacrosanct writing time. I make exceptions for almost NO ONE, and get exceptionally cranky if they get interrupted or cancelled.

This week, I was blessed by my mother in law to get to do a second writing day on Thursday afternoon. I went to my usual Starbucks, sat down in my usual chair, ordered my usual drink, and managed to crank out 3,000 words in three hours. Good day!

What I learned, though, in between researching rapelling and NYC MTA subway lines is that Starbucks is a very different place on a Thursday afternoon than it is on a Saturday afternoon.

All was quiet until about 2:30, and that’s when the kids started trickling in. Middle schoolers at first, followed by raucous high schoolers. They kept coming until the place was filled to the rafters with giggling, smart phone-using children, all of whom, apparently, felt a pressing need to order Frappuccinos.

It was amazing, in a trip-to-the-petting-zoo way. You know, when you venture into the petting zoo and the goats think you have food in your pockets so they swarm you, bleating and staring at you out the side of their faces until they lose interest and start humping each other? Yeah, it was a lot like that, though, thankfully, with less humping.

Note I said ‘less’ humping. There was a little bit of humping.

I just…I don’t remember being so loud when I was a teen, though I must have been because I’m a loud adult. I have no recollection of being affronted by either my own volume level or that of my friends. I suppose other people must have been, though, because teens are, by nature, a bit much.

It reminded me of how boundless everything used to be. How you could have such a good time with your friends, that your happiness seemed limitless. How you could have a crush so all-consuming it threatened to destroy you entirely if it went unrequited. How the future was a white blank page, and that was a-ok because that’s how it was supposed to be.

To be honest? I have great affection for that time in my life, but I’m much happier living within bounds a bit. When the horizon stretches beyond where you can see, there’s a lot of pressure to do something, be something, achieve something.

When you have a career, specialized skills, a home, children to take care of, and a husband to love, life is a page crowded to the margins with to do lists, upcoming events, and exclamation points. I don’t have to worry that my all-consuming affection for my husband might go unreturned, because, well, we’ve been stuck on each other for a good long time and I don’t think either of us is inclined to change that.

Even still, I can remember the heady days of my teens with fondness. I can look at the rowdy teens with aunt-like affection, knowing full well the thrills, pains, and triumphs that await them. They don’t have my wrinkles, but they don’t have my awesome life yet, either. They won’t for some time, and that’s great.

That’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be, because if you don’t have to earn the days of predictable peace, can you ever really enjoy them?

Bludgeoned by Inspiration

I was washing dishes when I figured out how to wrap up the chapter I’d been working on that day. I sprinted to the computer and tapped out 900 words in 20 minutes.

It’s days like this, I frigging LOVE being a writer.

New Yorkers Can Wipe Their Own Noses

Shhh. Listen.

Wait for it.

Do you hear that?

That rapid pitter-pattering, like a pair of shoes tap, tap, tapping against the floor?

Those are my feet. In my shoes. Tapping against the floor, because I’m excited. For the second year in a row, I have the unparalleled privilege of attending the International Thriller Writers Conference in New York City.

For six glorious days, I’ll be traipsing all over the greatest city in the world, free as a bird, learning and networking and having the best frigging time of my life. And the best part? I’ll not be doing any mothering while I’m there. I swear by all the fish in the sea, you New Yorkers can wipe your own darn noses while I’m there. I’ll have no part in it!

The ITW conference is going to be amazing this year. Day one takes place at…

:::DRUMROLL:::

FBI Headquarters!

That’s right. I’m spending the first day of the conference at an all-day FBI seminar held at FBI Headquarters in New York City.

Seriously, someone pinch me. I might pass out before I ever even get there.

Obviously, I’m going to miss my family. Every time I have leave them, even if it’s just for a couple days, I get all choked up and can’t even talk properly. They’re as much a part of me as my fingernails.

And yet, once a year, I get to go be by myself, soaking in the minutiae of the craft of writing, and it is so worth the pang of missing my kids and husband.

My hotel is a short subway ride away from the Guggenheim Museum and Central Park, so I’m thinking I’ll check those out on my free day. Stay tuned for pictures (this will happen in early July) and plenty of exclamation marks. There will be exclamation marks in abundance, I think.

Brace yourselves.

Daydreams of Browbeating

I was on the road the other day, driving incognito (which is my fancy way of saying I was driving my husband’s Camry instead of my customary minivan) and minding my own business when I noticed the car in front of me weaving. That distracted tilt-a-whirl jerking back into the middle after drifting off to either side weaving I’m sure everyone has seen before.

Simple curiosity urged me to catch up to the weaver in the other lane, and that’s when I saw it. A tan, skinny arm. A bright green phone at the end of it. All of which connected to a teenage girl wearing aggressive aviators and looking up every once in awhile at the road.

There’s nothing quite as comforting as knowing there’s a teenage driver in an SUV who’s paying scant attention to the road.

I decided the safest place was behind her, so I merged back and was treated to a satisfying variety plate of dangerous driving behaviors. She changed lanes without using her blinker, cut people off, sped up to at least 50 mph in a 35 mph area, changed lanes in an intersection, and then, to top it off, took the carpool on-ramp onto the freeway even though she was riding solo.

It was impressive how much she was able to accomplish in such a short length of road. She must have finished texting.

I’ll admit, I really, badly, wanted to pull a Dwight Schrute and put a cherry bulb on the roof of my car so I could pull her over and make a citizen’s arrest. Or, at the very least, browbeat her soundly for making teenage drivers everywhere look bad.

Instead, I kept a prudent distance and said a quick prayer for everyone on the road with her. Egads.

Is it wrong to hope a police officer pulls her over soon, and then fines her double when she attempts to cry her way out of multiple tickets?

Captain America 2′s Writers Give a Darn

Wes and I had the pleasure of seeing Captain America 2 last week. I’m happy to say that we, along with 99.8% of the other people who have seen the movie already, really enjoyed it. Excellent pacing, plenty of intrigue, and some breathlessly intense scenes that were tremendously satisfying.

This may sound weird, but I really appreciate how much of a darn the writers of the Marvel movies seem to give about their movies. Given the fan momentum and merchandising revenue they’ve already accrued, they could easily phone in a half-baked, lazy contrivance of a movie and people would still fork over money to see it.

Instead, they’re being really bold with their story lines and taking some risks. The new Captain America movie proves that you can’t take anything for granted in the Marvel universe, which I find refreshing.

It’s funny, the more I write, the more I notice about the structure of story telling. Much like an architect can probably get a good sense of what a building’s blueprint looks like just by looking at the finished product, I can see a story’s bones as I watch it unfurl. I think this skill makes it even more satisfying to watch a good story told well.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, go see the new Captain America movie if you haven’t already. It’s well worth the money. Here’s hoping that when you do go see it, the people behind you decide to leave their six year old kid at home. Seriously, why are there little kids at a violent movie like this???

Exes Are Everywhere

They were these, only bright green. Note the cuffs on the ankles, which somehow manage to make them worse.

I was at Nordstrom over the weekend and happened to be passing by the hosiery section when something caught my eye. Something bright. Something…unnatural.

Bright Green.

Floral print.

Pajama.

Overalls.

None of these nouns or adjectives are pejorative in or of themselves, but together? So strange. So odd. So unnecessary.

I mean, it’s possible they weren’t pajamas. They were in the pajamas section, so I made an assumption, but it’s possible they were just parked there on their way to…the circus section? I don’t know. I can’t imagine an instance where that garment is au courant outside the context of a circus. A festive, overpriced circus.

In non-sartorial news, I passed by an ex-boyfriend at the selfsame Nordstrom (though thankfully not in the Hosiery section). We did that thing where we recognized each other, then looked away real fast and pretended we didn’t because neither one of us had any interest in the awkward stop-and-chat. And oh, it would have been. Awkward, that is.

He and I did not part on friendly terms. I would have been perfectly content to have never seen him ever again, and yet, there he was. Yikes. This is the problem with living in the same neighborhood where you went to high school. There are exes and memories all over the darn place.

At least I could take comfort in knowing that I was with my daughter, who is delightful, and I was wearing makeup. I once crossed paths with a sort-of ex while I was 1,000 months pregnant and wearing sweats and a ratty t-shirt with no makeup and let me tell you, that is not how I’d like to be remembered as a grown-up. Still, he was really sweet so, y’know, I didn’t spend too much time worrying about it.

Let this be a lesson to you: If you live in the same area where you went to high school, or are visiting, always look presentable when you leave the house. Exes are frigging everywhere.

Sheep, Sheepdog, or Wolf?

I was having an email conversation with a friend of mine about this essay, “On Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs” by Dave Grossman, who wrote the incredible book, “On Killing.”

The gist of the essay can be summed up as such:

If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? A sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero’s path. Someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed.

It was, in my opinion, an interesting read. It makes a lot of sense, until you start pushing the metaphor until it breaks, as I am wont to do. It got me thinking about whether any of these types is capable of change. If so, were they really the first kind to begin with?

For example, a sheep is genetically different than a wolf. Obviously, right? But could a sheep, if thrust into the right set of circumstances, become a wolf or a sheepdog? If so, was the sheep ever a sheep to begin with?

I know admittedly little about the heights of violence possible when a person is backed into a corner (thank God) but I kind of feel like the potential for violence is possible in everyone, particularly in instances of self defense. Or in the defense of one’s children (which is, I would argue, by virtue of the parent/child bond, an extension of the parents’ selves).

So, this is where I push the metaphor until it breaks. In nature, obviously, the line between a sheep and a wolf is extremely clear. Wolves never act like sheep, sheep never act like wolves, and the sheepdog is a domesticated version bred for a specific purpose.

In the metaphor, however, I have to wonder whether the lines are that hard and fast. My friend, during the course of our conversation, mentioned that the line between a wolf and a sheepdog isn’t a bright one. Sometimes, a person with wolf-like tendencies will put him/herself in the position of being a sheepdog so as to stay out of prison. In that case, the line between the two is extremely dim.

Still, I would say I fall squarely in the sheep camp. I’m a stay at home mother, I’m a productive member of society, I seek peace whenever and wherever possible. Sheep, sheep, sheep.

And yet, I feel like I would easily throw down if anyone ever threatened myself or my kids (I don’t include Wes here because he can handle himself). Any time I see a dog growl at my kids, or think about how I would handle things if I was assaulted, I imagine some decidedly non-sheeplike behavior. I mean, come on. I wrote espionage fiction. I’ve written enough fight scenes at this point I’m starting to run out of creative ways to say “punched in the face.” I’ve always been on the aggressive side for a sheep (and I say aggressive meaning, ‘Don’t mess with me.’ I’m not a violent person).

My question then is this: Is there a sheepdog in every sheep, or are sheep capable of violence only in the service of self defense? Or, am I not a sheep at all but, rather, a very maternal, lazy sheepdog?

What about you? Sheep, sheepdog, or wolf?