It Gets Better, Right?

Yesterday was rough for me. I'm the first to admit that I avoid the news because rarely is it ever good news. When I do tune in, I'm not treated to heart-warming stories about people who have overcome the odds (they happen, but they're rare). No, when I turn on the news, I'm assaulted with images of police tape lining International Boulevard in Oakland and reports that a 5-year-old boy suffered a fatal gun shot wound; the fourth child to die in this manner in the past year. It doesn't get worse than that, but the reports on the state of the economy, health care, human rights, the Middle East, and gas prices don't help matters one bit. Let's face it, folks: it's tough out there. So, is it any wonder that I prefer to hide under a rock of fiction?


Back to the point: yesterday was rough for me. A seemingly innocuous news story about Paula Deen having finally announced that she is diabetic (really, is anyone surprised by this? The lady actually drank melted butter on TV!) led to a news story about the Italian Captain who refused to go down with his ship. That, in itself, is awful enough. Then, that news report led to a report which triggered my mini-meltdown: Pope Benedict XVI states [that] "Gay marriage [is] a threat to the 'future of humanity." Um. Yeah. That's no way to increase your numbers, Padre. This, in turn led to this and this, and finally, the straw that broke the camel's back.


So, that's a lot for one day. What broke my heart was the story about the Girl Scout who wants to boycott cookie season because a transgender girl was welcomed into a troop. That's right, GIRL! She's a girl! WHY does this one girl get to decide that a small child who identifies herself as a girl can't be a Girl Scout? This goes against everything the Girl Scouts are supposed to stand for.

The Girl Scout Promise

On my honor, I will try:

To serve God and my country,

To help people at all times,

And to live by the Girl Scout Law

So, maybe I've found the source of the issue here. God. Well, not God himself, but the idea of God. Which brings me to my next issue with this Girl Scout's attempt at protesting over this "issue". She's supposed to help PEOPLE at all times, not just when it's convenient.

The Girl Scout Law

It seems to me that this little movement this girl is trying to create doesn't really adhere to The Girl Scout Law, either. She's supposed to be trying to make this world a better place, not worse. And to be fair, I realize that this is likely not her fault. It's very likely that her parents just plain suck. Who on earth teaches their children to be so hateful to another person? Look, there was a lot my own parents could have done better, but this is one thing they got absolutely right. I've never been more grateful than I am today to have grown up in an environment where I didn't know these things were actual issues to some. So today, I thank you, Mom and Dad.

And still, you're wondering what the point of all of this is?

The point is that while I much prefer to hide out from the evils of the world, that doesn't mean they cease to exist. The world still turns, hate still exists, people are born and people die. What I realized last night is that I have a voice that has the possibility to impact people around the world. As a writer, I choose the world I present in my works. I have the ability to create a world that I like just a little bit better than the one I live in now; and on some level, I have the ability to impact the way people think. They may not agree with me in the end, but it will impact them in some way.

So today is a little less rough for me, because I feel a little less helpless. Today, I feel like I can make a difference, even if it's only to one person. And that's all it really takes-- one person to impact another, and they in turn impact another... and the beat goes on; and slowly but surely the world we live in will hopefully more closely resemble the one we want to live in.

Daily Prompt: Bumbly

Daily Prompt Rules: Must be written in third person, past tense. Prompts are decided the day of the exercise. You write until you feel you're done. Minimum-- 200 words.

Picture Prompt: (January 5th, 2012)

Bumbly

A blanket of white snow covered everything in sight. The trees and their branches hung low with the weight of it. The bushes had been covered in the storm overnight, and the grass had long since been buried beneath the snow and sleet. What was it about the substance that made human love it so much anyway?

The dog—though one would do well to avoid calling him that—was not a fan of snow. The snow made his paws cold and wet and then she yelled at him when he jumped in bed like that. He often wondered why she took him out into the wintery slush if she was only going to yell about the condition he returned in. Humans made no sense to Bumbly. He simply could not relate.

This morning she woke up crying, his human. The black thing beside her bed make a shrieking noise before it was even daylight which seemed to have activated Bumbly’s bladder. He was no longer a puppy and thus it was always a balancing act. To eat first or to relieve himself? Much to her dismay, he often may the wrong choice which led to an emergency urination on the bathroom floor. She was a yeller and that sure sent her into a frenzy.

Now, she had taken Bumbly out into the cold, wet snow and had expected him not to whine. She shushed him when a whimper escaped.

Truth be told, Bumbly didn’t dislike her. He cared very much for her in fact. It just so happened that with age, so came crankiness (for them both it seemed). The pair had been together for years. So many, in fact, that Bumbly had seen her go through a variety of people (most of the male variety). The pair had gone from their youth to adolescence (now that was a difficult time for poor Bumbly who had become known as “the leg humper”), and through university. Now, in her mid-twenties, she and Bumbly had left her parents’ house and finally had a home they could call their very own.

Bumbly reminded himself of this daily. Her moods had become tiresome and even Bumbly’s cuddles didn’t do much. Sure, she held him and talked with him, but it just wasn’t the same. She was upset about something—always apologizing to him. She had taken to dragging him to the man in the white coat a lot lately. After poking and proding, they left with her always crying. Bumbly didn’t know how to make her feel better. He was at a loss for what he could do.

They passed Bumbly’s favorite bush and he looked at it fondly. He knew it was his bush even though it was covered in that blasted snow. What wasteful weather, to cover a guy’s favorite bush.

Something slowed him down—a pain he thought. Bumbly’s right front paw ached, so he laid down. It began as uncomfortable, but then it spread. She started crying again, but Bumbly couldn’t move to comfort her this time. Lying there in the snow, all Bumbly wanted to do was to lick her face and make her smile. She wasn’t smiling now. She looked as though she was losing her best friend in the entire world. And she was.

Daily Prompt: Wrigley Field

Daily Prompt Rules: Must be written in third person, past tense. Prompts are decided the day of the exercise. You write until you feel you're done. Minimum-- 200 words.

Around mid-morning one day, you realize that everything that is happening seems really familiar. After much thought you discover that your life has fallen into a terrible rut and now you must take drastic measures to find a way out of it. Write the scene where you make a life-changing decision. (January 4th, 2012)

Wrigley Field

She was tired and annoyed. The bus had been late picking her up this morning. She’d stood at the bus stop, wind whipping at her trench and the grey clouds above her head letting tiny drops of rain fall to the ground. By the time the bus had arrived, her hair—once neat and orderly—had become a frizzy mess. It wasn’t that today had been especially trying; it was that every day was just the same.

She was always tired and annoyed. The bus was always late. Chicago wasn’t called The Windy City for nothing; and her hair always suffered for the ever-changing weather.

It was all the same, always the same. Over the years (and there were many), she’d often fantasized about throwing it all away. She could live off her savings for a good 6 months—a year if she was frugal—she reasoned.

Tucked away in a skyscraper just north of Wrigleyville, she pushed papers and typed keys for a man in a suit who hadn’t once thanked her in her four years of employment with the company. Perfection was demanded and so were psychic powers. It was a shame she couldn’t manage either.

But today, there on the 27^th floor of the soulless skyscraper that overlooked the expanse of the southeast pocket of the city, she’d reached her limit. She stood in the copy room, two hours past quitting time, and half past fed up. And she stared out the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows at the lights from Wrigley Field. It was her favorite place in the world, that ball park. Aged, and loved, and full of heart and soul. Wrigley Field was a structure that demanded you take notice; so very unlike the structure she’d been in ten hours now. She could practically feel her life draining away in the neutral landscape, breathing forced air, and the smell of sterility surrounding her. There was no life here.

It was all the same, always the same. She’d promised herself that she’d work at this nameless company just long enough to pay off her student loans. And then she’d promised herself she’d continue working it just long enough to fund that trip to Paris she’d always wanted to take; the same trip to Paris she passed up on because it had been too much trouble. That’s what she told everyone. The truth is that she’d been afraid to travel alone. She was always alone.

The thankless man walked past the door to the copy room, smelling of rich vanilla notes and artificial cherries. She didn’t know why he had returned to the office so late. It was her perfume. Her being the woman he’d left work to see. Her being the woman he’d left the building early to have dinner with. The women changed countless time through the years, but the routine never did. She’d memorized his scent over time and could now easily pick out when he’d optioned out for a new companion. She hated that she’d noticed it. She’d hated that it bothered her. She’d hated him. Only, she didn’t.

His laugh was innocuous, pleasant even. He make the small baritone sound in passing. But it was too late. She’d heard it. That laugh, his laugh, had interrupted a fly ball to center field.

He had torn down her self-esteem. He had choked the very life out of her social life. He had dumped on her, about her, and had demanded etiquette that was humanly impossible. But he’d just crossed the point of no return. He’d interrupted a Cubs game.

Before she thought on it, she’d decided that this was it. This was her moment.

She looked down at the report, in its third incarnation—all 643 pages of it—and picked up the top half. She smiled for what she thought might have been the first time in weeks, and she threw her hands up. The papers scattered. A lighthearted giggle escaped her, and she repeated the act with the rest of the stack. The joy that rushed through her sent her on a high: an office-terror high.

The report had only been the beginning. Soon, pens were being tossed, trays of empty forms were dumped to the linoleum floor, and mailboxes were being emptied. Their contents scattered and mingled. He had gotten so angry when he’d received another employee’s mail in his box. The travesty! Her only regret was that she wouldn't be around to see his reaction to this mess.

The copy room had been enjoyable. Her pulse quickened and her eyes were alight with mischievous. She had a thought to destroy everything in sight. Computers would get dropped, chairs would get thrown, and paper would sail through the insufferable forced air until it dove feet upon feet away from its home. She’d had the thought of destroying everything. But then she’d remembered the cameras. But then, she’d decided she didn’t care.

Weeks later folks would recall that night. They would share gossip that they’d heard. One woman heard that she’d suffered a breakdown after he dumped her. Another woman heard that she’d been pregnant with his child. The men in the company mostly assumed that she had gone all Fatal Attraction on him. And each one of them would recount the tale of how the last place she’d been seen was at a Cubs’ game that night. He had seen her there.

For as wild as the stories were of what caused her breakdown, they never did manage to get it right. And it didn’t matter; because down there in Wrigleyville, in section 204, row 13, seat 5; she sat and she watched. And for being unemployed, and a potential felon (she wouldn’t know, she’d upped and moved); she sat happily in her seat, eating away at her life’s savings, one six-dollar hot dog at a time.

** Please note that this is an on-the-spot writing assignment and while I know a little bit about Chicago, I am aware that this is likely factually inaccurate. 

Daily Prompt: The Double-Yellow Line

Daily Prompt Rules: Must be written in third person, past tense.

Prompts are decided the day of the exercise. You write until you feel you're done.

Minimum-- 200 words.

Your character picks up a hitch-hiker on his/her way home from work. The hitch-hiker tries to persuade your character to leave everything and drive her across the country. (January 3rd, 2012)

The Double-Yellow Line

With the desert stretched before him and civilization at his back, George Danforth let his eyes travel the desolate landscape. The splintering wood and crackling paint of Old Towne whittled away in the spotted rearview mirror of his ’45 pickup.

The wind had picked up sending vats of tumbleweed down the lone stretch of highway. Two lanes was all it was; separated by a decade-old and faded double-yellow line. The line you’re not supposed to cross.

The tumbleweed hadn’t been a surprise. This time of year the winds picked up and scattered what little lived in this part of the country. Back. Forth. Again. And eventually straight up into oblivion. Oblivion was El Paso. George hated El Paso.

George hadn’t been looking forward to the drive. It was long and lonely. Occasionally, he’d see truckers out on the side of the road. Some would be stretching their legs, some would be relieving themselves. And then there were the ones who weren’t doing anything. They’d just stand there, on the side of the road, in the middle of the unincorporated desert. Those were the ones George had made a point of avoiding.

Strange things happened in far out places that local folks didn’t care to mention. You only heard about the disappearances when they were trying to get rid of you. The local folk never did have a problem getting rid of visitors out here. There wasn’t anything to visit.

Yards ahead and across the infamous double-yellow line, stood figure, clothed in a loose-fit white tunic. As George guided the truck onward, the figure in white became clearer, more real.

It was a woman with nothing more than the clothes on her back and well-worn army-grade boots on her feet. George slowed at the sight, knowing that he had to pull over. A small embankment lined the right side of the highway making it impossible to avoid crossing the double-yellow line.

He’d heard stories—wives’ tales—in passing; nothing that earned much attention; though he’d be inclined to turn a more attentive ear now. On the other end of the county, Old Lady Crathbaum had asked George if he’d been following the laws of the road. He’d nodded his dusty head and had given her assurance that he minded his manners. She’d nodded, said he was a good boy, and that it wasn’t likely they’d catch on to him. George’s attentions had been on Old Lady Crathbaum’s use of the word “boy”. It’d been three wars and as many decades since anybody had considered him a boy. For that, George had always held the old lady in high regard.

George crossed the double-yellow line and pulled the truck to a stop. The woman moved slowly, but assuredly, and climbed in the cab. Her movements were deliberate in nature—that much George could tell. He’d wanted to protest. He’d wanted to ask her if she was out of her mind—climbing in the truck of a passerby she didn’t know. Instead, he sat and watched her acclimate herself to the vehicle.

“Go north, George,” she said; confidence in her voice. His eyes grew wide with confusion at the sound of his name coming from her silky voice. Her eyes still hadn’t met his, but he could see they were dark from the corners. Her skin was pale, hair was long, and she was dirty. Her white tunic looked much darker, dirtier, this close.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” George drawled, careful of his tone. “But I’m not heading north.”

The woman stilled in her seat. Her head turned slowly toward him. Her eyes, dark indeed, trained on George’s hair. The brown mess was tinged with grey and clouds of dust that had built up into it since the crack of dawn when he’s begun his day. His fingernails were dirty and his knuckles calloused, giving him away as a working man. He wasn’t a dirty man by any means, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dirty when he left work.

The woman’s body jerked, her dirtied flesh giving way to a dark green sheathing that glistened from the setting sun. George remained stock-still as he took in her appearance. Her eyes glassed over, marble white and her nose collapsed into three tiny slits that set evenly parted between her eyes. At that, George threw himself backward, slamming into the door of the cab; one hand braces on the steering wheel, the other clawing into the leather of the backrest.

“Follow the laws of the road, George,” her tongue, slit in two peeked out from between her lips. “Be a good boy.”

Comma Chameleon

A few days ago, I finished an urban fantasy series that had consumed me. Still, despite all reports of consumption, it took me forever to get through the five currently published novels. I'm slow. *shrugs*

So there I was on my Nook (my newest toy, most recent love, and late-night cuddle buddy), perusing Barnes & Noble's online store. I don't remember what led to it, but I decided to purchase an e-book copy of Anne Rice's The Witching Hour, which is the first in The Lives of the Mayfair Witches trilogy.

I remember years ago, reading The Witching Hour for the first time and falling consummately in love with the world Rice paints for us. Her prose is rich with a classic elegance that can only be earned by living and learning. She brings a setting to life in a way that most authors I read are wholly incapable of doing; and above all, Anne Rice makes me feel as though my person has been woven into the tale. I never feel like an outsider looking in. I'm always there, present.

It was late 2007 when I first stepped on Louisiana soil. I fell in lust instantly. It was mid-October, and the weather was balmy, the air humid, and everywhere I turned somebody or something was welcoming me to the pelican state.

The largest airport within driving distance of the city is Louis Armstrong, which is out in Kenner. Kenner is a suburb of New Orleans, divided to the crescent city only by the suburban city of Metairie (both suburbs are in Jefferson Parish). The drive east on I-10 was uneventful. Both Kenner and Metairie are fairly average as suburbs go. There were hotel chains, diners, strip mall, office buildings, and a few signs that promised classy ladies wearing little more than a garter. Though eventually, all of that gave way to the city itself. And I was hooked.

I exited the highway at Carrollton Avenue and headed toward the river. At the time, I think it called it "south", but eventually I would come to know better. A few blocks down, discount gas stations, and fast food joints that line Carrollton Avenue gave way to sprawling oaks, and stately antebellum mansions of yesteryear. A few days later as I was exploring the historic Garden District, and I was careful to pick up my feet lest my foot be caught on a piece of protruding concrete, sending me to the pavement; I was reminded of why I was there.

Somewhere, in the pages of Rice's novel, I had fallen in love with the setting more than I had fallen in love with the story itself. Rice never spared the setting in editing as so many authors often do. Early on in her works, it's easy to see that among Rowan and Michael and the expansive Mayfair clan, the setting is an integral character. Every crack in the pavement, every bougainvillea bush, and every weeping willow drew me back into that world that I'd fallen in love with. That feeling never left me in the three years I called the city home.

I could go on and on, but this post is lengthy enough as it is.


In the end, I'm happy to be re-reading The Witching Hour. It has simultaneously reminded me of a place that I'll always think of as home, and it has shown me how much I've grown. The first time I went through this trilogy, I was an aspiring writer. I had stories to tell and the burning desire to tell them well. Only, I didn't have the tools in order to do so.


This time, I am a writer. Last year I clocked nearly 300,000 words over an expanse of five bodies of work. I recently finished one piece and am nearly completion on another, while a few more sit discontentedly around the second act-- just waiting for continuation. I know more about the English language than I did during the first read; and this time I even have preferences and peculiarities about literature and language. One of those is my loyalty to the Oxford comma. I realize that stylistically its popularity has fallen by the wayside, but I love it. It's how I write and is easier on my brain.


So, I admit to being a little surprised at how few commas appear in Rice's gothic family epic. Anne Rice isn't wrong, not at all. She just has a different style of writing than I do. And no, I don't consider myself on par with her; though I do think I'm knowledgeable enough to garner an opinion.


Now I wonder how many other of my favorite books are stylistically different from what I prefer... hm.

Odd Job to Nut Job

            Writers Digest’s website has published an article entitled ‘The Oddest Odd Jobs of 10 Literary Greats’. The article, while a fun look into the earlier years of some of our favorite authors, also made me think about my own odd jobs.

            I have worked as a: sales girl (clothes, music, movies, books, jewelry, house wares, pet supplies, garden equipment, craft supplies); residential and commercial space planner; food server (ice cream/yogurt, candy, smoothies, ballpark foods); party planner; nanny (various ages); administrative legal support team member (secretary, clerk, and assistant). And those are only the jobs I can remember.

            How do we draw upon what we know? This is an often taught lesson that I think many tend to glaze over in their writing. Writing books often tell budding authors to write what they know as they have the best chance of being factually correct in your writing—and thus the story being more believable and relatable. But, how do we do that when we, maybe, didn’t enjoy the odd jobs we’re being told to draw upon? Let’s face it—I’d rather not go back to my days scooping ice cream if I can help it.

            Disliking a job or not wanting to emotionally return to that place doesn’t mean that you can’t draw upon your experiences and turn the situation around for yourself. In order to do this, you must first ask yourself why you don’t want to go back there.

            For me, it was my bosses. The owners of the small, independent shop I worked at owned the business as a side investment—only it wasn’t doing real well at the time—and neither one had been competent enough to effectively run the place. When things didn’t go the way they had imagined, their first instinct was to point the finger at someone else. Surely, their staff who hadn’t been trained, had no previous work history, and were left alone for hours at a time to make impactful decisions for the business they were unqualified to make, were the reason the business suffered.

            Can you tell that I’m not terribly fond of these folks?

            Well, that right there is the reason I should incorporate my personal experience into my work. Discontent can be a wonderful springboard for a fantastic side story. What better way to get revenge on a pair of inept bosses who made my life a real pain than to write them into a fantasy scenario they may or may not survive? Really, as writers we have the opportunity to kill off people we don’t like. In any other profession, killing people would get you 5 to 10 in maximum security; so why not take advantage of this unique perk to the job?

            Not only does writing about our sometimes colorful work history add an element of realism to whatever you’re writing, it can also make a bland storyline a little quirky. All too often I pick up a book about a doctor or a lawyer and the author just glazes over the profession entirely? They’re popular picks in literature and relatively easy to write about, if you’re writing a gloss piece. But who wants to hear their readers say: “Yeah, it was good. No detail though”? Nobody.

What makes Tess Gerritsen so successful is that she was a practicing physician for many years. When she writes medical jargon it isn’t just fancy crap pulled from a textbook. It feels real and genuine because it is. The same can be said for John Grisham and many other writers. Just because they write what they know doesn’t mean it’s boring or that they can’t branch out and stretch their base of knowledge. You never know when the knowledge you acquire from any of life’s experiences is going to be the very thing that grabs readers in your work.

So, You Want To Write? It’s A Horrible Career. No, Really.

            Being a writer means that I’m fairly isolated from the rest of the world when I’m working. Sure, in my “off” time, I engage in social activities. But between holding down a full-time job, taking classes, and trying not to fail at this whole being a writer thing; I don’t have a ton of time for a social life. And that’s alright, because I’ve chosen this path.

            Lack of social life aside, the act of writing can be strenuous. Everything from choosing point of view to making sure the final draft is clean and error-free. Once in a while I need advice, or maybe just a little encouragement to get it right. I’m a writer, not a genius, and my knowledge of the written word and the English language are largely a work-in-progress. And I’m no fan of self-help books—in any form—so taking the leap to opening up a book on writing is a challenge for me. But then, even worse, when I do open up a book on writing, inevitably one of the first things I read about is how difficult being a writer is.

            Well, for starters—duh!

            And to add to that—you freaking think?

            Sarcasm aside (for now), I may not know everything there is to know about being a writer, but I do think I have some small clue. I haven’t finished my first book yet, so that should give you some hint at what the process of actually writing is like. It may be rewarding, but it certainly is no picnic. I have spent hundreds of hours working on this single body of work. I can only imagine how grueling the editing process will be; and I really don’t want to think about what will come of trying to get an agent and eventually a publisher.

            There are days, many days, where I have a moment when I ask myself “why”. I don’t ask myself why I choose to write. I ask myself why I feel compelled to write. I highly doubt the accountants of the world have the above issues and fears. And that’s not a knock at those who either don’t consider themselves creative spirits or really like numbers. In fact, I envy them in a way.

            So, when I open up book after book on creative writing and I continue to read other authors tell me how this career choice will break me, I get a little pissed off. Perhaps they feel that forewarned is forearmed. And yeah, I understand that point. But at what point does forewarning a budding author become overkill? I’d say around November.

            NaNoWriMo is hard enough without essentially being told that you can’t do it. When I first started writing I was under the impression that all of us writers were on one team; but there are days where I’m not so sure anymore. Does it make people feel better to tell someone else how hard they’re going to have it? Does it make those who are published more accomplished?

            I don’t think anyone who writes a book on writing is actively trying to dissuade anyone else from pursuing a career in writing… they’re just being honest. I guess, at the end of the day, honesty just really freaking sucks.

Nanowrimo 2011: Official Kickoff

          I woke up this morning, and there was nothing special about it. Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed, then showered and dressed and walked to the train station. And there was nothing special about that, either. I sat on the train and carried on a conversation with a good friend on my beloved Crackberry. I arrived at work and walked the tightrope that is my job all the while delicately balancing slaving away for my boss and slaving away for my novel. And there was nothing special about any of it. And that is how my life goes every day.

            For millions around the world, today is not just Halloween—a day of witches and warlocks and candy (lots and lots of candy!)—today marks the end of something terrifying and the beginning of something amazing.

            For Wrimos around the globe, we have had a 336 day respite from the insanity that was the 2010 National Novel Writing Month. Many went into hiding for a good month while many others were brave enough to break out the red pen; surely turning their poor manuscript into something akin to the Faulkner classic As I Lay Dying. Much like As I Lay Dying, Nanowrimo first drafts are typically rough in nature, oftentimes riddled with curious prose, run-on sentences, and they don’t make more than a lick of sense. Unfortunately for Wrimos everywhere, the general writing population is subject to rules that apparently Faulkner was not.

            But I digress.

            Perhaps this no longer makes sense.

            Faulkner is legendary. I have yet to finish my first novel. Yada yada yada. I will now retreat to my rightful place in my tiny, unassuming corner. The point is that we’ve had 336 days to prepare for tonight. I know—I’m wordy. Brevity never was my strong suit.

            So, in just a few hours—at the stroke of midnight when it officially becomes November—writers far and wide will leave behind the ordinary and set out to achieve the extraordinary: 50,000 words in 30 days.

            What I learned from last year’s epic fail was that 50k in 30 days is hard. Life gets in the way, problems come up that cannot be ignored, and then there’s that holiday at the end of the month. And whether you give up four days in like I did (I know, I am embarrassed!), or you make it all the way through to the end, it’s an experience one isn’t likely to forget.

            What makes Nanowrimo so extraordinary is that it pushes every one of us to try something new and scary. It pushes us to dig deep into our creative little souls and tell the stories we have long since been putting off. But more than that, Nanowrimo pushes us to stop putting limitations on our capabilities.

            So, when I left work today, the commute was nothing special. And nothing special happened during my shower, or when I sat down to write this blog post.

            But the moment I open up that word doc at midnight, something very special will happen. Along with millions of others around the world (and a few of my closest friends), I will slip into that land of make-believe where witches and warlocks don’t only exist on Halloween, where anything is possible if only you believe, and miracles can and do happen on every page.

            Happy Nanowrimo 2011 everybody!

                        See ya later,

                                    J.C.

This is Sparta!

            Here I sit at my modest work station in preparation to work. Work is a curious word for what I’m about to do. I’m about to write.

            For the daughter of an office manager and a handy man who was raised with little more than was necessary to get by; the idea that writing is work is a rather new thought in this house. For some family members, it’s still a bit of a myth.

            They see me at the computer—whether there be a smile on my face or a frown—and they assume that I’m playing around. And truthfully, there’s a good chance I am. But what the family doesn’t seem to understand about the work of writing is that it is more than simply typing as many words into a document as possible.

            So, anyhow—like I said—I’m sitting here preparing to write and I fall victim to the stupid television. But you should give me a break because 300 is on and I mean, come on, Gerard Butler + loin cloth + never-ending abs? Yes, I’m a serious writer. No, I’m not a monk. Are there even lady monks?

                …

                Moving on.

            This is what my evenings consist of—a delicate dance where I flip from typing at hyper speed and hoping that when I look at what I’ve written a week later that it won’t suck the big one; and then television. Or Google searching mermaid reproduction because it’s a matter of extreme importance. You see? I have serious work to do.

            And even though I’m not writing about mermaids, that search was valuable. As a writer, every search, every book, every TV show has the potential to teach me something. Or sometimes, for some strange reason, inspiration can strike. Whether it be an example of something that worked in a show or something that didn’t in a book; I’m always learning.

            There are times where sitting on the sofa, remote in hand, really is just a waste of time. And certainly not every fishing expedition on the reproductive aspects of the Merworld is helpful. Sometimes, I really am just looking up random crap. But then there are the times that I happen upon something that strikes a bit of genius in my heart and mind; and my stories are forever the better for it.

            I’m not sure how it’s happened that I can consider watching a film about a rogue Spartan King that looks like a comic book come to life work, but I have. And isn’t that what being a writer is—a curious amalgamation which somehow turns everyday tasks into inspiration which however unfathomably turns into words on a page which eventually become your book.

            Never have I set out on a stranger or more rewarding experience as I have in attempting to write a book or to call myself a writer. And hopefully one day, the family will get it. And maybe not.

                        See ya later,

                                    J.C.

The Price of Technology

            So, I’ve been busy. Obviously, my “post a day” idea tanked. I’m not real sad about it because I’ve been off the computer and out living. I’ve been exploring local nature trails and going to the beach, spending a day in the city, and even reading actual books. You know what I’m talking about: the kind that you don’t have to read on your screen. It’s been nice to join the land of the living again; but I also recognize that I won’t ever finish this book if I don’t sit down and write it. So, I need to start focusing on the book and this blog again. So, I’m letting go of the “post a day” idea.

Oh well. I’m full of ideas. I’m not exactly crying over it. What I was crying over yesterday, though, was super lame.

            My Blackberry was down for the count.

            There’s a reason it’s called a Crackberry, folks.

            You see, my Blackberry has been my lifeline for the past year+ and until yesterday I didn’t think it was a problem. I use my phone for everything: gchat; web browsing; Word document editing; PDF viewing and editing; and about once a week I even write a chapter from my phone. It has a bunch of other features, too, which I don’t really use. Then of course, there’s the biggest thing—instant e-mail access. I’ve been known to check and respond to e-mail at 3am. No matter how deep asleep I was.

            So, yesterday I was freaking out. I had known for about a week that my phone was having some serious issues; so I brought it into the service center where they determined it’s a software issue and they’re sending me a refurbished one sometime this week. But after all that, my phone wouldn’t even charge. I was at the end of my rope.

            I’m not a heart surgeon or a solider; so really, I can miss a call, ya know? My e-mail isn’t life or death and yet, I sure was acting like it yesterday. My phone has since charged and is working well for now. When I got the stupid thing to finally charge and then turn on, you know what I found?

            Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

So, what was my fit about?

Nothing.

For now my phone is being replaced with the same model and that’s fine; but I’m going to have to do some thinking about what I should get this upcoming march when I’m eligible for an upgrade. Part of me wants a fancy new device and another part of me really doesn’t. What value does being able to check my e-mail at 3am hold for me?

There are obvious perks to having a smart phone. I can’t even tell you how many times being able to do a Google search has saved my hide; and I love being able to gchat with my friends when I’m bored; and having a full keyboard to type out a chapter is fabulous. But when do I just stop and smell the roses? When do I have a chance to just do nothing?

I can’t even remember the last time I just did nothing.

What is that anyway?

I feel like I’m constantly straddling two worlds: one where I want to be able to be “on” all the time and I push myself to the limit every day; and another where I can slow down and just enough a simpler life. There is definite value in being productive. And there’s inherent value in the simple things. And I think now more than ever, finding the balance that best suits you is tough. Sure, technology can make life easier; but then it also ties you down. We become dependent on the immediateness of it all.

I know that I have to find a way to simplify my life because the uber-connected rat race is not for me; but I still want the ease of access that a smart phone has to offer. I guess we’ll just have to see what I can do about finding a way to manage this.

And I do recognize what today is. I’ve chosen not to write about it. Maybe another day. It’s not that I think it’s time to move on or that I’m not thinking about it. The simple fact of the matter is that despite not being “personally” affected, this is still a tough day for me. So I’ll leave you with this—my heart goes out to everyone around the world who is still affected by the events that occurred ten years ago today; and a huge thank you to those who have dedicated their lives to defending our freedom.

Thank you.

                        See ya later,

                                    J.C.