Hullo, my writer friends.
As you know, I've been working just a little over full time since May. Six days a week. Every morning I wave to the Beloved and I drive away in my Neon, wishing I could be home with them. It would all be better soon, I told myself. Soon my new employee would be able to handle things on her own for a day at a time, and I could have some days off with my kids before they, you know, grow up.
Except yesterday, I let my employee go.
It just wasn't going to work. She's a very sweet girl, just a little more clueless than I thought. Hint: when you take a job and agree to the offered (fair!) wage, you need to know ahead of time if that is enough money to pay your bills. When you discover that your obligations outstrip your income, don't expect your employer, who has spent thousands of dollars training you for an entire summer, to let you hang around while you look for a better job. Ain't happening, sweetheart. Bye.
So that leaves me where? Working my butt off, for one, with a hiring hangover that looks like it's going to last until, oh, Christmas. I don't even want to advertise, I feel like I just got out of a relationship - I need some time.
The icing on the cake? I just got off the phone with a woman. The conversation went like this:
Her: "Hello, to what time are you open this evening?"
Me: "Six o'clock."
Her: "Six o'clock, on a Friday before you close for a long weekend. That's just wonderful."
Me: Stunned pause, while I reel from the sarcasm.
Her: "Thank you so much."
Me: "Uh, thank you." For not shopping here. Ever.
Amazing. You know, I go out of my way for people. Just this morning I went outside without a coat in the pissing freaking rain to carry a computer to a woman's car. Every second day, I wait an extra few mintues so some poor overworked shmuck can make it here in time to pick up his machine. I follow up. I care. You won't get that kind of service anywhere else.
So thank YOU, lady-who-was-calling-from-home, who is probably watching Oprah right now. You suck.
Thank heavens for my real customers, the people who see and appreciate how long and hard I work.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
It's not nice to laugh at people
So here am I, plugging away in my nifty little computer shop, when in comes a customer. No big deal, that happens all the time.
"Hello," says customer, "I need a USB extension cable."
(For those of you following along, a USB cable has both an "A" ending and a "B" ending. Extensions always plug into the "A" ending.)
"Oh yes," I say, just as pert and perky as can be, "those are right here. Six feet?"
"Mmmphm." (People say that around here, you know.) He's looking at the two ends of the cable, and looking mildly distressed. I showed him how his cable would plug right in to the end of the cable in the package. He's still not happy, I can tell.
"What's the matter?"
"Well," he says, "that's not the end of the cable I wanted to extend."
Blink.
Blink blink.
"Hello," says customer, "I need a USB extension cable."
(For those of you following along, a USB cable has both an "A" ending and a "B" ending. Extensions always plug into the "A" ending.)
"Oh yes," I say, just as pert and perky as can be, "those are right here. Six feet?"
"Mmmphm." (People say that around here, you know.) He's looking at the two ends of the cable, and looking mildly distressed. I showed him how his cable would plug right in to the end of the cable in the package. He's still not happy, I can tell.
"What's the matter?"
"Well," he says, "that's not the end of the cable I wanted to extend."
Blink.
Blink blink.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Cha. Sure.
So, of course I'm run off my feet today. Of course these people are coming out of the woodwork, and taking all my stuff away so I have to order more stuff.
So that's ok, of course.
(stomp, stomp - disappears into stock room with a clipboard.)
So that's ok, of course.
(stomp, stomp - disappears into stock room with a clipboard.)
Good Things
My little sister is coming for the weekend, and we're closing the shop for three whole days. Yay! We'll be taking the kids to an amusement park, where they have a petting zoo and rides and a waterslide and ice cream. BamBam is tall enough to go on all the rides now! We'll also be going to the Natal Day parade, because BamBam has never been to a parade, and hell, he's going to be six this month. (My bad.)
Today is going to be a stellar writing day, because Employee is away, and I can't imagine people will want to bother much about me when it's thirty degrees and sunny out there. And see, it's only 6:30 and I'm writing already, thanks to Pebbles, who woke Mummy at five o'clock and then went back to sleep.
Also very excited about Bambam's birthday party. When asked what sort of party he wanted, he said "A surprise party."
"Dude, you can't plan your own surprise party."
"No, but YOU can. Just...surprise me!"
All righty then. I think I can pull that off. So I told him it really wasn't quite the thing, and maybe we'd talk about his party later. In the meantime, any idea who he'd like to invite?
So, guess what we're doing?
COWBOY ADVENTURE!
With a hayride, blown-up bouncy jumper things, all-you-can-eat hotdogs, AND a pony ride. Not at the house, (blessing self) but at a facility that actually does that stuff. Provided you sign the waiver.
Sucker mom, to the rescue. Yes, it's maybe more than we ought to do, but once I saw the website I just couldn't help myself. You only turn six once.
Wait.
SIX?
How did this boy get to be six?
Today is going to be a stellar writing day, because Employee is away, and I can't imagine people will want to bother much about me when it's thirty degrees and sunny out there. And see, it's only 6:30 and I'm writing already, thanks to Pebbles, who woke Mummy at five o'clock and then went back to sleep.
Also very excited about Bambam's birthday party. When asked what sort of party he wanted, he said "A surprise party."
"Dude, you can't plan your own surprise party."
"No, but YOU can. Just...surprise me!"
All righty then. I think I can pull that off. So I told him it really wasn't quite the thing, and maybe we'd talk about his party later. In the meantime, any idea who he'd like to invite?
So, guess what we're doing?
COWBOY ADVENTURE!
With a hayride, blown-up bouncy jumper things, all-you-can-eat hotdogs, AND a pony ride. Not at the house, (blessing self) but at a facility that actually does that stuff. Provided you sign the waiver.
Sucker mom, to the rescue. Yes, it's maybe more than we ought to do, but once I saw the website I just couldn't help myself. You only turn six once.
Wait.
SIX?
How did this boy get to be six?
Friday, July 27, 2007
It's the little highs that sustain me
Guess what?
I'm alone, ALONE, I tell you, in my office. I'm at my computer, and I've been writing for a whole hour. I've finished a scene, at least the first draft of it, and I'm feeling good. And hey, I've earned it.
I have a talk-to-me face. I know I do, because people really do talk to me. Take today, for instance. I know about a father's cholesterol and leg difficulties. I know about a pregnancy scare. I know about a girl in Texas who has come through her surgery all right. I know about a private little beach someone found in our neighborhood. A malignant tumor, gone now, thank heavens, and aren't epidurals wonderful. (Yes!) $100 worth of impatiens that drowned in all that rain back in June. And it's what, 2 o'clock?
Edited at 2:40 to add:
I now have the Complete Scoop on the relationship between sleep apnea and high blood pressure. Apparently, there's a machine that hooks to oxygen tubes that go up your nose. It costs $1800, but insurance covers it. It's a noisy machine, and you might need a chin strap to keep your mouth closed.
I don't work in a hospital. For Chrissakes, I work in a computer shop.
I can see I'm going to have to work on my "I Like You, But I'd Rather Be Writing" expression.
Just for fun, and because I've never posted my writing yet, here's my scene. Is the hocus-pocus stuff tiresome? It's our first scene with this character.
From THE WITCH OF BADENOCH, copyright Cindy D, 2007
Gwynnedd drifted reluctantly back to herself, condensing slowly out of the ether, back into the warm dimensions of her waiting body. The plodding beat of her heart, the restricting rhythm of her breathing were at first strange to her, and her soul fluttered in panic and dismay. It took a few moments' deep concentration to will it back into the confines of her flesh. Gradually, she became accustomed, aware of the soft evening breeze on her hair, the light twittering of the birds in the forest canopy above, and the ache in her hips from sitting too long. Only when she could feel the shapes of her fingertips resting on her knees did she open her eyes.
The setting sun cast fire on the pool before her and she blinked, stretching. Her body was stiff, but her spirit was refreshed, renewed. She stripped off her clothes and waded into the cool, glittering water, whispering the words of a prayer to the Goddess as she bathed her long, pale body.
The sun was nearly set when she left the shelter of the forest, walking alone up the long slope to where the walls of Glamorgan Castle reared, glowing on the summit of the hill. The traffic that normally flowed to and from its main gate was mostly absent at this time of day, there were only a few people on foot headed toward the village, and a man with a handcart crossing beneath the ramparts.
Nobody spoke to her as she passed through the bailey into the great hall, and from there into the corridor beyond. The few people she met on the narrow, winding stair quickly cast their eyes away and shrank against the stones to let her pass. At the top, up where only servants and children dwelt, she followed the corridor to the west until it ended amidst chill and cobwebs, dusty things abandoned, and a faint whiff of decay.
She had disturbed the darkness with her passing and it spun slowly around her as she paused, curling damp musty fingers around her neck and shoulders. The recess before her was invisible without a light, less than the width of a man, set into an angle of the wall near a chimney. Only when she was certain there was nobody near did she slip through, silent feet finding each of the thirteen narrow steps that led to her room beneath the eaves.
Closing the door behind her and shedding her clothing again, she bent to build a fire in her tiny brazier. She rummaged in her kist, nimble fingers plucking up the things she would need. Sage, pennyroyal, a small tub of death-scented grease, and the powdered bark of an elm tree. Mixing the herbs, bark and grease into a paste with her fingers, she sank down before the fire, closing her eyes and filling her lungs with air.
Something was afoot. She could feel a displacement in the balance of power; it was drawn outward, stretched thinner. New forms were shifting, waking, just outside of her perception. Waiting, breathing, it came to her that there would be both an opportunity, and an adversary, though she knew not what, or who. Yet.
Tonight, she would perform the ritual to heighten her ability, to ready herself for the Coming.
The grease hissed over the fire, melting almost instantly. She pressed three fingers of each hand into the hot, fragrant oil, and made the sacred gestures, touching them to her temples, lips, the bottoms of her breasts, and between her legs. Turning toward where the rising moon was framed in her tiny window, she supplicated once, twice, three times. Then she dressed in fresh clothing and went to find the last thing she needed to complete the rite.
The stables were located at the back of the castle, built into the wall just inside the eastern gate. It was full night now, and nobody saw Gwynnedd where she paused in the deeper shadow cast by a towering woodpile. A curious piglet nosed about in the straw by her foot and she pushed it away with a soft hiss, careful not to make it squeal.
Across from her, the open half-doors of the horses' stalls were only just visible, but in a nearby room above an open window glowed. From it tumbled the rowdy laughter and jovial cursing of men at drink and cards. Once in a while, one of them would come down to piss, and she would lean out, hopeful, only to withdraw with a pout. Only one man would do, and it was nearly midnight before she saw him.
He paused at the bottom of the stair, blocking out the light with his height and broad shoulders. Gwynnedd whispered a spell and stepped out into the open.
He saw her immediately, with her blonde hair and light gown she would be an easy mark. He crossed toward her.
His voice came out of the darkness like a caress on her skin as the hulking shape of him drew near. "Can I be helpin' ye, Miss? Ye shouldna be aboot, the lads are deep in their cups, the night." He glanced over his shoulder to where the card game continued without him.
"Just taking the air," Gwynnedd replied. She saw him hesitate and stepped around him, trailing a fingertip as quick as lightning along the curve of his ribs. His expression was lost to the shadows, but she could feel his heat, and smell the sharp tang of his surprise mingling with the whisky on his breath. "Too bad I don't have an escort. You never know what harm might come to a girl, all alone out here at night." Coming round to the front of him again, she pressed close, smiling, and pressed her palm to the front of his breeks.
"Um," he said, stepping back and catching her by the wrist. He cleared his throat. "Where are your rooms, Miss, and I'll see ye safely there."
"No. I want you. I've been waiting."
For just a moment he hesitated, and she laughed softly. Rising on her toes, she wrapped one arm around his neck and whispered against his throat.
"Come with me to the forest. Now." Again, her hand closed over him, and he groaned softly. Her voice was silky moonlight. "Ye willna regret it, I promise."
I'm alone, ALONE, I tell you, in my office. I'm at my computer, and I've been writing for a whole hour. I've finished a scene, at least the first draft of it, and I'm feeling good. And hey, I've earned it.
I have a talk-to-me face. I know I do, because people really do talk to me. Take today, for instance. I know about a father's cholesterol and leg difficulties. I know about a pregnancy scare. I know about a girl in Texas who has come through her surgery all right. I know about a private little beach someone found in our neighborhood. A malignant tumor, gone now, thank heavens, and aren't epidurals wonderful. (Yes!) $100 worth of impatiens that drowned in all that rain back in June. And it's what, 2 o'clock?
Edited at 2:40 to add:
I now have the Complete Scoop on the relationship between sleep apnea and high blood pressure. Apparently, there's a machine that hooks to oxygen tubes that go up your nose. It costs $1800, but insurance covers it. It's a noisy machine, and you might need a chin strap to keep your mouth closed.
I don't work in a hospital. For Chrissakes, I work in a computer shop.
I can see I'm going to have to work on my "I Like You, But I'd Rather Be Writing" expression.
Just for fun, and because I've never posted my writing yet, here's my scene. Is the hocus-pocus stuff tiresome? It's our first scene with this character.
From THE WITCH OF BADENOCH, copyright Cindy D, 2007
Gwynnedd drifted reluctantly back to herself, condensing slowly out of the ether, back into the warm dimensions of her waiting body. The plodding beat of her heart, the restricting rhythm of her breathing were at first strange to her, and her soul fluttered in panic and dismay. It took a few moments' deep concentration to will it back into the confines of her flesh. Gradually, she became accustomed, aware of the soft evening breeze on her hair, the light twittering of the birds in the forest canopy above, and the ache in her hips from sitting too long. Only when she could feel the shapes of her fingertips resting on her knees did she open her eyes.
The setting sun cast fire on the pool before her and she blinked, stretching. Her body was stiff, but her spirit was refreshed, renewed. She stripped off her clothes and waded into the cool, glittering water, whispering the words of a prayer to the Goddess as she bathed her long, pale body.
The sun was nearly set when she left the shelter of the forest, walking alone up the long slope to where the walls of Glamorgan Castle reared, glowing on the summit of the hill. The traffic that normally flowed to and from its main gate was mostly absent at this time of day, there were only a few people on foot headed toward the village, and a man with a handcart crossing beneath the ramparts.
Nobody spoke to her as she passed through the bailey into the great hall, and from there into the corridor beyond. The few people she met on the narrow, winding stair quickly cast their eyes away and shrank against the stones to let her pass. At the top, up where only servants and children dwelt, she followed the corridor to the west until it ended amidst chill and cobwebs, dusty things abandoned, and a faint whiff of decay.
She had disturbed the darkness with her passing and it spun slowly around her as she paused, curling damp musty fingers around her neck and shoulders. The recess before her was invisible without a light, less than the width of a man, set into an angle of the wall near a chimney. Only when she was certain there was nobody near did she slip through, silent feet finding each of the thirteen narrow steps that led to her room beneath the eaves.
Closing the door behind her and shedding her clothing again, she bent to build a fire in her tiny brazier. She rummaged in her kist, nimble fingers plucking up the things she would need. Sage, pennyroyal, a small tub of death-scented grease, and the powdered bark of an elm tree. Mixing the herbs, bark and grease into a paste with her fingers, she sank down before the fire, closing her eyes and filling her lungs with air.
Something was afoot. She could feel a displacement in the balance of power; it was drawn outward, stretched thinner. New forms were shifting, waking, just outside of her perception. Waiting, breathing, it came to her that there would be both an opportunity, and an adversary, though she knew not what, or who. Yet.
Tonight, she would perform the ritual to heighten her ability, to ready herself for the Coming.
The grease hissed over the fire, melting almost instantly. She pressed three fingers of each hand into the hot, fragrant oil, and made the sacred gestures, touching them to her temples, lips, the bottoms of her breasts, and between her legs. Turning toward where the rising moon was framed in her tiny window, she supplicated once, twice, three times. Then she dressed in fresh clothing and went to find the last thing she needed to complete the rite.
The stables were located at the back of the castle, built into the wall just inside the eastern gate. It was full night now, and nobody saw Gwynnedd where she paused in the deeper shadow cast by a towering woodpile. A curious piglet nosed about in the straw by her foot and she pushed it away with a soft hiss, careful not to make it squeal.
Across from her, the open half-doors of the horses' stalls were only just visible, but in a nearby room above an open window glowed. From it tumbled the rowdy laughter and jovial cursing of men at drink and cards. Once in a while, one of them would come down to piss, and she would lean out, hopeful, only to withdraw with a pout. Only one man would do, and it was nearly midnight before she saw him.
He paused at the bottom of the stair, blocking out the light with his height and broad shoulders. Gwynnedd whispered a spell and stepped out into the open.
He saw her immediately, with her blonde hair and light gown she would be an easy mark. He crossed toward her.
His voice came out of the darkness like a caress on her skin as the hulking shape of him drew near. "Can I be helpin' ye, Miss? Ye shouldna be aboot, the lads are deep in their cups, the night." He glanced over his shoulder to where the card game continued without him.
"Just taking the air," Gwynnedd replied. She saw him hesitate and stepped around him, trailing a fingertip as quick as lightning along the curve of his ribs. His expression was lost to the shadows, but she could feel his heat, and smell the sharp tang of his surprise mingling with the whisky on his breath. "Too bad I don't have an escort. You never know what harm might come to a girl, all alone out here at night." Coming round to the front of him again, she pressed close, smiling, and pressed her palm to the front of his breeks.
"Um," he said, stepping back and catching her by the wrist. He cleared his throat. "Where are your rooms, Miss, and I'll see ye safely there."
"No. I want you. I've been waiting."
For just a moment he hesitated, and she laughed softly. Rising on her toes, she wrapped one arm around his neck and whispered against his throat.
"Come with me to the forest. Now." Again, her hand closed over him, and he groaned softly. Her voice was silky moonlight. "Ye willna regret it, I promise."
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Still writing
I'm still here, still writing, though it's only a few words a day.
I'm trying to get to the bottom of an issue that's niggling somewhere in the back of my mind. It's one particular scene. The first half comes into focus very easily, I can see, I can hear, I'm there. But I'm trying to bring it in a particular direction, and it won't go. Tomorrow, I'm going to give it its head, and see what happens. Actually, I'm quite looking forward to it - you never know what happens at times like this.
Maybe tonight I'll fix myself an icy white russian and see what happens.
Maybe I'll have to fold the laundry.
Maybe I'll fix myself an icy white russian, and THEN fold the laundry.
I'm trying to get to the bottom of an issue that's niggling somewhere in the back of my mind. It's one particular scene. The first half comes into focus very easily, I can see, I can hear, I'm there. But I'm trying to bring it in a particular direction, and it won't go. Tomorrow, I'm going to give it its head, and see what happens. Actually, I'm quite looking forward to it - you never know what happens at times like this.
Maybe tonight I'll fix myself an icy white russian and see what happens.
Maybe I'll have to fold the laundry.
Maybe I'll fix myself an icy white russian, and THEN fold the laundry.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Onward!
A short update, since I find myself alone in a house with two sleeping children.
it's very quiet
I'm really tired of blogging about how hard it is to find time to write, we know all that already.
I'm also tired of treading water with this book, needing to tell the story, yet unable, somehow, to figure out which way to swim for shore. Which way? I've taken a breath now, and I'm just swimming.
I've got some stuff written in one notebook, other stuff written in another notebook, and some scribbles on the back of an envelope somewhere. But I'm writing. It doesn't feel like progress yet, actually, I'm really struggling. I have to force myself not to give up, every day.
There are moments that make it worthwhile, single lines written three years ago that suddenly bloom into whole scenes. There are scenes I struggled with that I just *Plink!* deleted. Just like that, I hate this, it's gone. I am free.
Kind of.
I still have this feeling that I've failed, somewhere. How can that be? What it is, is the HUNDREDS of days over the past few years that I didn't write. Those days, I learned nothing. Those days, I didn't progress. Those days, I didn't build on my wordcount. Those days, I became so waterlogged with doubt that I was in danger of sinking.
Today, though, I did write. And tomorrow, I will too. I hope that as long as I keep going, I will find the me that really believed that I can do this. For now, it's one stroke after the other, just a little moment in my journey to the shore.
it's very quiet
I'm really tired of blogging about how hard it is to find time to write, we know all that already.
I'm also tired of treading water with this book, needing to tell the story, yet unable, somehow, to figure out which way to swim for shore. Which way? I've taken a breath now, and I'm just swimming.
I've got some stuff written in one notebook, other stuff written in another notebook, and some scribbles on the back of an envelope somewhere. But I'm writing. It doesn't feel like progress yet, actually, I'm really struggling. I have to force myself not to give up, every day.
There are moments that make it worthwhile, single lines written three years ago that suddenly bloom into whole scenes. There are scenes I struggled with that I just *Plink!* deleted. Just like that, I hate this, it's gone. I am free.
Kind of.
I still have this feeling that I've failed, somewhere. How can that be? What it is, is the HUNDREDS of days over the past few years that I didn't write. Those days, I learned nothing. Those days, I didn't progress. Those days, I didn't build on my wordcount. Those days, I became so waterlogged with doubt that I was in danger of sinking.
Today, though, I did write. And tomorrow, I will too. I hope that as long as I keep going, I will find the me that really believed that I can do this. For now, it's one stroke after the other, just a little moment in my journey to the shore.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Eureka!
I'm so excited!
Yesterday I had a few quiet moments to myself, the rare kind, when I was neither tired and sapped of all creativity, nor needed by one of The Beloved. I got out the cue cards I bought for a buck a pack, and started writing things down. Just stuff. Scenes I have. Scenes I need to write. Points I need to make at different parts of the story. Things I need to remember, lists of what makes each character tick - their motivations, fears, needs.
As I went along, I placed the cards in piles. One for administrative things, then scenes for each pov, ordered the way they will in the story. Then I separated the piles into Beginning, Middle and End.
I'm not very good at outlines, not the way they taught us to make them in school. I've seen the cue card idea on Kelley Armstrong's blog, and in a few different variations on the net, including the Forum. I tried it with a different WIP I was fiddling with, but this story called me back, impatient, before I got too far with that. 'Scuse me, it said, we're waiting here, if you please.
I didn't realize how confused I was about my own (somewhat convoluted) storyline until I did this. I can't wait to get back to the stack of cards, in a Ziplock bag in my purse, each one a stepping stone on the journey.
See ya!
Yesterday I had a few quiet moments to myself, the rare kind, when I was neither tired and sapped of all creativity, nor needed by one of The Beloved. I got out the cue cards I bought for a buck a pack, and started writing things down. Just stuff. Scenes I have. Scenes I need to write. Points I need to make at different parts of the story. Things I need to remember, lists of what makes each character tick - their motivations, fears, needs.
As I went along, I placed the cards in piles. One for administrative things, then scenes for each pov, ordered the way they will in the story. Then I separated the piles into Beginning, Middle and End.
I'm not very good at outlines, not the way they taught us to make them in school. I've seen the cue card idea on Kelley Armstrong's blog, and in a few different variations on the net, including the Forum. I tried it with a different WIP I was fiddling with, but this story called me back, impatient, before I got too far with that. 'Scuse me, it said, we're waiting here, if you please.
I didn't realize how confused I was about my own (somewhat convoluted) storyline until I did this. I can't wait to get back to the stack of cards, in a Ziplock bag in my purse, each one a stepping stone on the journey.
See ya!
Friday, July 06, 2007
Creativity, and peace of mind
I'm a creative person by nature. I love writing, of course, but I enjoy other kinds of creativity as well: cooking, scrapbooking, even colouring with BamBam, to name only a few. With my schedule lately, there's been little or no time for me to use this part of my mind, and THAT, my friends, is cranky-making.
This afternoon, though, the cloud cover has cleared, and I'm spending some time happily scribbling on cue cards and thinking about my story. It's quiet. People are leaving me alone, at least for the moment. It doesn't add to the wordcount, but it is a very effective mental anti-oxidant.
*sigh*
This is The Stuff.
This afternoon, though, the cloud cover has cleared, and I'm spending some time happily scribbling on cue cards and thinking about my story. It's quiet. People are leaving me alone, at least for the moment. It doesn't add to the wordcount, but it is a very effective mental anti-oxidant.
*sigh*
This is The Stuff.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Tag, I'm it!
Seven random things about me, hunh? Let's see..
1. I'm 34, I have two brothers, 31 and 25, and a sister who is 13.
2. I like my feet, and I hate my forehead.
3. I had a pony named Peggy, and then a horse named Mikie, when I was growing up.
4. Nobody likes me when I haven't been sleeping. Growl!
5. I'm very nice. You'd like me.
6. I believe in ghosts.
7. I have dreams of being a writer, but in the day-to-day I lack the drive it takes to be successful. Some days I forgive me, most days I don't.
Everyone I know has been tagged, except Carol.
1. I'm 34, I have two brothers, 31 and 25, and a sister who is 13.
2. I like my feet, and I hate my forehead.
3. I had a pony named Peggy, and then a horse named Mikie, when I was growing up.
4. Nobody likes me when I haven't been sleeping. Growl!
5. I'm very nice. You'd like me.
6. I believe in ghosts.
7. I have dreams of being a writer, but in the day-to-day I lack the drive it takes to be successful. Some days I forgive me, most days I don't.
Everyone I know has been tagged, except Carol.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
The Writing Mom
Some days I don't make it to my keyboard, and there's guilt about that. This poem helps me to remember what's really important.
MY HANDS WERE BUSY
My hands were busy through the day.
I didn’t have much time to play.
The little games you asked to do,
I didn’t have much time for you.
I’d wash your clothes. I’d sew and cook.
You’d ask and I’d read from your book.
I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers; turn out the light.
Then tiptoe softly by your door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.
For life was short, the years rushed past,
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at my side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away.
There are no longer games to play.
No Teddy Bears or misplaced toys
No sleepovers with lots of boys.
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear.
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands, once busy, now are still.
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to do.
Anonymous
MY HANDS WERE BUSY
My hands were busy through the day.
I didn’t have much time to play.
The little games you asked to do,
I didn’t have much time for you.
I’d wash your clothes. I’d sew and cook.
You’d ask and I’d read from your book.
I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers; turn out the light.
Then tiptoe softly by your door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.
For life was short, the years rushed past,
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at my side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away.
There are no longer games to play.
No Teddy Bears or misplaced toys
No sleepovers with lots of boys.
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear.
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands, once busy, now are still.
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to do.
Anonymous
Monday, June 25, 2007
POV
Ohmagod, it's a craft post. (G)
All right, you writers, help me out here. I've been struggling with this for a while, and I'm going to lay it all out. If I know me, by the time I finish writing it all down I'll have decided on a course of action, because that's how my little brain works, but I really want to know what you - YOU! -have to say about this.
I write paranormal historicals. The WIP I'm on right now, THE WITCH OF BADENOCH, is in first person, which I've chosen because I like the intimacy of being right inside my MC's head. However, when I made the change to first person I lost some other points of view - that of my Scottish-warrior-hunka-sexy-bod and my super-bitchy-sex-addict-witch antagonist. I really do feel that their perspectives add to the story, but I'm nervous about combining POVs.
One-two chapters in first person, then a few in third? Nnnn, there's something about that notion that puts me off a little. Would that annoy you, even supposing it was well done?
I've read enough, written enough and thought enough to know that indeed, there are no rules. You can do whatever you want - as long as you do it well. So, why the hesitation? Well, how about I tell ya?
One - crisis of confidence. This book is six years in vitro. When I started the latest re-write I vowed to Keep It Simple. A straight-forward novel, I said, that's what I need to write. Let's see if we can't finish something without getting all tangled up in our panties. Well, it's not turning out that way so far. (sigh) The question of whether or not I can pull it off will have to wait until I've tried.
Two - marketability. (Yes, I do know better. But.) Here I am, a new writer with my first MS. Will it be harder to sell this than a single-pov story, or even one in third? I know there are other books out there that use this method, but still, I can see it being an issue. I write to write, but I don't want to set myself up for failure. Still, the question of whether I can pull it off or not will have to wait until I've tried.
Pattern forming, here.
Ms. Vicki has what she calls the kitchen sink method. Throw it in there, she says, you can sort it out later. This is somewhat contrary to the KISS, method, methinks!
Many, many others remind me that it's MY book. It can't - and won't ever - exist without the force and input of my own creativity. That's partly because it needs the blood of my imagination to grow from embryo to infant, and why would I censor that? Wouldn't it be better to fill these pages with as much of the best me as I can?
Of course, it's also partly because I just won't write the damn thing if I'm not having fun.
Well, hell. It IS my book. And it's MY precious free time that goes into it. If I want to write it this way, I guess I can give myself permission to do that. No, scratch that.
I hereby ORDER me to do it my way!
All right, you writers, help me out here. I've been struggling with this for a while, and I'm going to lay it all out. If I know me, by the time I finish writing it all down I'll have decided on a course of action, because that's how my little brain works, but I really want to know what you - YOU! -have to say about this.
I write paranormal historicals. The WIP I'm on right now, THE WITCH OF BADENOCH, is in first person, which I've chosen because I like the intimacy of being right inside my MC's head. However, when I made the change to first person I lost some other points of view - that of my Scottish-warrior-hunka-sexy-bod and my super-bitchy-sex-addict-witch antagonist. I really do feel that their perspectives add to the story, but I'm nervous about combining POVs.
One-two chapters in first person, then a few in third? Nnnn, there's something about that notion that puts me off a little. Would that annoy you, even supposing it was well done?
I've read enough, written enough and thought enough to know that indeed, there are no rules. You can do whatever you want - as long as you do it well. So, why the hesitation? Well, how about I tell ya?
One - crisis of confidence. This book is six years in vitro. When I started the latest re-write I vowed to Keep It Simple. A straight-forward novel, I said, that's what I need to write. Let's see if we can't finish something without getting all tangled up in our panties. Well, it's not turning out that way so far. (sigh) The question of whether or not I can pull it off will have to wait until I've tried.
Two - marketability. (Yes, I do know better. But.) Here I am, a new writer with my first MS. Will it be harder to sell this than a single-pov story, or even one in third? I know there are other books out there that use this method, but still, I can see it being an issue. I write to write, but I don't want to set myself up for failure. Still, the question of whether I can pull it off or not will have to wait until I've tried.
Pattern forming, here.
Ms. Vicki has what she calls the kitchen sink method. Throw it in there, she says, you can sort it out later. This is somewhat contrary to the KISS, method, methinks!
Many, many others remind me that it's MY book. It can't - and won't ever - exist without the force and input of my own creativity. That's partly because it needs the blood of my imagination to grow from embryo to infant, and why would I censor that? Wouldn't it be better to fill these pages with as much of the best me as I can?
Of course, it's also partly because I just won't write the damn thing if I'm not having fun.
Well, hell. It IS my book. And it's MY precious free time that goes into it. If I want to write it this way, I guess I can give myself permission to do that. No, scratch that.
I hereby ORDER me to do it my way!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Status update
BamBam goes in for day surgery next week, they're inserting tubes in his ears to clear up an ongoing issue we've had with his hearing. It'll be reasonably pain-free, but he's a cautious little person and so we'll be using the next few days to help him prepare for the ordeal. We've got a video from the library and I've been bringing up the topic now and again, gently, since I've noticed he really doesn't want to discuss it. Fingers crossed it all goes well, they do this dozens of times a week, in any case.
Pebbles can stand, but at fourteen months hasn't begun walking yet. She does, however, climb - and there have been a number of heart-stopping incidents when we've had to take her down from the top of a five-foot ladder, the end table, etc. Have I mentioned this already?
Writing-wise, no news. I've had to make my peace with being a hobby-writer for now. Stick with me writer-friends, I still need you!
Pebbles can stand, but at fourteen months hasn't begun walking yet. She does, however, climb - and there have been a number of heart-stopping incidents when we've had to take her down from the top of a five-foot ladder, the end table, etc. Have I mentioned this already?
Writing-wise, no news. I've had to make my peace with being a hobby-writer for now. Stick with me writer-friends, I still need you!
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Where did Cindy go?
It's been one of those weeks. Work, care for loved ones. Sleep. Work, care for loved ones, watch a TV show, sleep. I'm just doing what I have to do for now, and that's ok. That's motherhood.
But tomorrow...tomorrow is going to be a good writing day. I can tell! And that's good, because I really feel like this story is ready to go. I don't want it to slip away for lack of attention.
But tomorrow...tomorrow is going to be a good writing day. I can tell! And that's good, because I really feel like this story is ready to go. I don't want it to slip away for lack of attention.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Priorities
We've all got them. Some are very important, some are middling, some obviously come after everything else. For me, this week, I'm trying to figure out where writing fits, for me, in my life, right now.
It's been a bit of a mess, but the dust is settling. Hubby and I are getting the hang of this role-reversal thang. He's doing wonderfully, and it's gratifying for me to know that he's got a whole new idea of what it's like to manage a household. For me, my heart hurts when I drive away from the house every day, and I keep reminding myself that it's temporary, moms have to work sometimes too.
Being a mother taught me how to use time. Being a mother at work six days a week is going to force me to be brutal in uncluttering those few hours I get between supper and bed, between dawn on Sunday and that moment when I close my eyes. So what really matters?
- Time with the kids, reading, playing , and not looking at my watch and thinking about how I should put a load of laundry in.
- Time with hubby, who deserves more attention than he gets. He comes last too often.
- Time alone. I need - I'm starving for - time by myself, time when nobody needs anything from me, time when nobody is talking to me, time when I can do nothing, just read or soak or sit and watch tv.
- Time to write. I set this apart from alone time because they're not the same thing and I need both.
- Time to sleep. I'm an eight hours person. I don't always get that, of course, but I've learned that I need to do my best to get enough sleep because it affects my personality, and I owe it to my family to be the best Mom/wife I can. When I'm tired I'm impatient and I lose my temper too easily.
I know, welcome to motherhood, the rewards for which are not to be found on the list above. On Sunday I smelled Pebbles' neck a lot, you know the spot, just below her ear. I sat in the sun with my folks, spent some time feeling like I ought to clean something but not doing it. BamBam stayed overnight at his Nanny's, so I still miss him.
Hmmm. Time to clean the house didn't show up on the list.
Anyway, why blog about it? You writers know. Writing it helps me see it better, helps me see me better. I know it's all going to come together. When I get my days off back again I'll appreciate them more, and I'll have learned - again - not to put so many chores before puzzle time. Nothing changes faster than a child, and nothing more precious has ever gone unappreciated.
It's been a bit of a mess, but the dust is settling. Hubby and I are getting the hang of this role-reversal thang. He's doing wonderfully, and it's gratifying for me to know that he's got a whole new idea of what it's like to manage a household. For me, my heart hurts when I drive away from the house every day, and I keep reminding myself that it's temporary, moms have to work sometimes too.
Being a mother taught me how to use time. Being a mother at work six days a week is going to force me to be brutal in uncluttering those few hours I get between supper and bed, between dawn on Sunday and that moment when I close my eyes. So what really matters?
- Time with the kids, reading, playing , and not looking at my watch and thinking about how I should put a load of laundry in.
- Time with hubby, who deserves more attention than he gets. He comes last too often.
- Time alone. I need - I'm starving for - time by myself, time when nobody needs anything from me, time when nobody is talking to me, time when I can do nothing, just read or soak or sit and watch tv.
- Time to write. I set this apart from alone time because they're not the same thing and I need both.
- Time to sleep. I'm an eight hours person. I don't always get that, of course, but I've learned that I need to do my best to get enough sleep because it affects my personality, and I owe it to my family to be the best Mom/wife I can. When I'm tired I'm impatient and I lose my temper too easily.
I know, welcome to motherhood, the rewards for which are not to be found on the list above. On Sunday I smelled Pebbles' neck a lot, you know the spot, just below her ear. I sat in the sun with my folks, spent some time feeling like I ought to clean something but not doing it. BamBam stayed overnight at his Nanny's, so I still miss him.
Hmmm. Time to clean the house didn't show up on the list.
Anyway, why blog about it? You writers know. Writing it helps me see it better, helps me see me better. I know it's all going to come together. When I get my days off back again I'll appreciate them more, and I'll have learned - again - not to put so many chores before puzzle time. Nothing changes faster than a child, and nothing more precious has ever gone unappreciated.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Postcards from the edge
Hello, writers and moms!
I just logged in quickly here at work, and I was astounded to see the difference in the colors on my PC here vs my laptop at home. Dude, this is ugly! So I'll have to fiddle with those sometime, sorry.
Work is long but not hard, I miss the kids, I miss being home. I miss writing time, but hey, it's only temporary. In the meantime, I'm writing when I can, and reading when I can't write. Also watching The Shield on DVD - it's really, really good.
I hope y'all are well, I'll make the rounds of the blogs soon.
I just logged in quickly here at work, and I was astounded to see the difference in the colors on my PC here vs my laptop at home. Dude, this is ugly! So I'll have to fiddle with those sometime, sorry.
Work is long but not hard, I miss the kids, I miss being home. I miss writing time, but hey, it's only temporary. In the meantime, I'm writing when I can, and reading when I can't write. Also watching The Shield on DVD - it's really, really good.
I hope y'all are well, I'll make the rounds of the blogs soon.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Progress
A mini-progress report for my mini-progress. I have crossed the 10K mark!
Against all odds, in this house. The other morning I got up at 6 and turned on my notebook, put some water on to boil, and wrote:
"I dreamed of a hawk, soaring like an angel of death over the valley."
BamBam appeared, and turned on the TV. I reminded him to feed the cats, and he asked me for some breakfast. I toasted a bagel, and sat back down, hands poised over the keyboard. Pebbles called out from the bedroom. I got her up and convinced her to play with toys, then I made my coffee. I sat back down, and read what I'd written. I added:
"Its shadow"
and there was a tug on my leg, accompanied by the word "MumMUM!" and a rather strong, unpleasant odor. Diaper change. Then I made lunches, woke DH, and it was time to take BamBam to the bus stop. Word count for the day: 16.
However, I have added words every day this week. Not many, but my spreadsheet has an entry for every day, and that feels good.
Against all odds, in this house. The other morning I got up at 6 and turned on my notebook, put some water on to boil, and wrote:
"I dreamed of a hawk, soaring like an angel of death over the valley."
BamBam appeared, and turned on the TV. I reminded him to feed the cats, and he asked me for some breakfast. I toasted a bagel, and sat back down, hands poised over the keyboard. Pebbles called out from the bedroom. I got her up and convinced her to play with toys, then I made my coffee. I sat back down, and read what I'd written. I added:
"Its shadow"
and there was a tug on my leg, accompanied by the word "MumMUM!" and a rather strong, unpleasant odor. Diaper change. Then I made lunches, woke DH, and it was time to take BamBam to the bus stop. Word count for the day: 16.
However, I have added words every day this week. Not many, but my spreadsheet has an entry for every day, and that feels good.
Friday, May 04, 2007
And it hits the fan.
Oy.
The girl we hired didn't work out. By "didn't work out," I mean she called in sick three times in three weeks, seriously, have you ever called in sick even once at a new job? With a cold? With a sore knee? I kid you not. So, we had a conversation about dedication and commitment, and I asked her what would happen on the day she called me to say she couldn't work because she had a cold, and I told her I had no childcare arrangements for that day, and anyway both my kids are sick too, and sorry, but she'd have to tough it out?
She decided she wasn't up to the job.
What this means is that for a while, probably a few months starting on the 20th of May, I'm going to be working six days a week, fifty hours. I'm not thinking about that and what it means for this household, I'm just going to deal. Today is Friday. Tomorrow is Saturday, and it's going to be okay.
Yesterday I was at work alone for a while. I tidied my desk, threw out seventy-five of the post-its that my (treacherous, abandoning, beloved) co-worker loves so much. I was surprised to find that I was at peace. Work is a familiar place to me, and I feel comfortable with my hands on the wheel, guiding the business through the ebb and flow of customers. And hey, it's one heck of a lot easier than looking after the kids.
So maybe say a little prayer for me, and cross your fingers that my DH will suddenly learn to cook.
The girl we hired didn't work out. By "didn't work out," I mean she called in sick three times in three weeks, seriously, have you ever called in sick even once at a new job? With a cold? With a sore knee? I kid you not. So, we had a conversation about dedication and commitment, and I asked her what would happen on the day she called me to say she couldn't work because she had a cold, and I told her I had no childcare arrangements for that day, and anyway both my kids are sick too, and sorry, but she'd have to tough it out?
She decided she wasn't up to the job.
What this means is that for a while, probably a few months starting on the 20th of May, I'm going to be working six days a week, fifty hours. I'm not thinking about that and what it means for this household, I'm just going to deal. Today is Friday. Tomorrow is Saturday, and it's going to be okay.
Yesterday I was at work alone for a while. I tidied my desk, threw out seventy-five of the post-its that my (treacherous, abandoning, beloved) co-worker loves so much. I was surprised to find that I was at peace. Work is a familiar place to me, and I feel comfortable with my hands on the wheel, guiding the business through the ebb and flow of customers. And hey, it's one heck of a lot easier than looking after the kids.
So maybe say a little prayer for me, and cross your fingers that my DH will suddenly learn to cook.
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