Tree vs Lava

It's been four days.

I'd breakdown the hours, minutes and seconds for you, but I already feel pathetic enough as it is. No need to share my lametude with the world.

Yes, lametude is a word. I said so.

I haven't heard anything back from Agent Chica yet, but I'm not surprised.

At least, the rational part of my brain isn't surprised. She's a busy woman, said it'd be a bit of a wait, and well, it's only been four days. Regardless of the fact that she emailed me less than 12 hours after submitting, to let me know that she'd downloaded my book to her handy-dandy e-reader, I shouldn't be impatient, she's doing me a solid by reading it at all.

Ha.

You know that rational part of my brain? Imagine that it's a small, twiggy tree in the path of an erupting volcano.

Paranoid Lava eats Rational Tree.

Which for some reason reminds me of Jurassic Park. "Dinosaurs eat man...Woman inherits the earth."

Best line of the whole film.

And so not the point that I had in mind when I sat down to write this blog.

Despite Agent Chica's awesomeness, I've been entertaining the idea of sending out query letters to agents while I wait for her response.

This is a Rational Tree plan.

I know it's the smart thing to do. After all, the more chances I put out there, the more likely I'll get a yes, right?

Sizzle, pop, pop, sizzle...

The more chances that I'll get a loud chorus of "Oh hell no!"s.

Plus, sending out queries requires research. I'm too busy hitting the refresh button on my email to do research, waiting for an answer that probably won't come until at least tomorrow, given the time differences.

I look at myself spiraling, and want to scream "Don't go to the coast! Head to high ground!" Unfortunately, the cries of the other villagers about to die are drowning me out.

White-girl Rapper

"After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot. And when that fails a little gizmo called a zip drive can provide a surprising amount of comfort."

I love "Sex and the City". It's one of my catch-all, fail-proof ways to get happy when I'm not.

The problem is when my life starts to mirror it.

There's an episode where Carrie's computer crashes, and she loses everything she'd written, for years. You watch this episode, laugh, and assume it will never happen to you.

You're wrong.

It will happen to you. One of these days, your computer will die an early death, and you will lose everything. Whether it's music, pictures, or five years worth of writing that you could never begin to recreate, you'll lose it.

I did.

Last week my computer died. Not for long, as I was able to save it's rotting carcass for a bit, at least until I can get a new one, but all of the data I had on it was wiped, completely. Not even my computer geek could get more than a few symbols and snippets of words from it.

Losing that much writing, that many starts of books that you swear you'll go back to at some other point, is painful. It feels like someone close to you has died. Like you've died.

Needless to say, even now, a week later, the sensation that I might burst into tears at any second is still very present.

Luckily the current project was on my little thumb drive, so at least I didn't lose that. But the rest of it...It's just gone.

Moral of this story? Back yo shit up.

Inkygirl has the perfect comics for me.

Procrastination is the fear of success. People procrastinate because they are affraid of the success that they know will result if they move ahead now. Because success is heavy, carries a responsibility with it, it is much easier to procrastinate and live on the "someday I'll" philosophy.

I'm convinced that Denis Waitley lives in my head. Because when I read things like this, I see myself so clearly in them, that honestly, they had to have been written for me.

Which incidentally reminds me of something that's been going on at work lately, which doesn't put me in a better mood.

Of course, that's not the point.

The point is, I've given myself until tomorrow at bedtime to send my novel (finished or otherwise) to Ali's agent friend. So what am I doing?

• I'm creating another blog for work stuff.
• I'm working too many hours and not writing during my shifts (not entirely my fault).
• I'm spending all day at my inlaws, and not bringing my book with me to work on.
• I'm updating this blog.
• I'm signing up for SHINE Online, a blogging contest kind of like NaNoWriMo.

I am not, however, writing.

Procrastination, and the fear that fuels it, is my ball and chain, dragging me down into the depths of "you'll never be good enough, so why bother?"

And now, I think I'm going to go take a shower, instead of writing. Or cleaning the house, which will force me to take off time from writing to do tomorrow.

Today is not a good day.

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

There's a girl at work, Christen, who I like.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, she screws up her personal life so effectively that I want to revoke her decision making privileges.

But, that's not the purpose of this blog.

The purpose of this blog is to illustrate just how oblivious people can be.

The girls at work know that I'm writing a book. They know that I'm on a deadline. They know that I'll be writing at work, between customers, because our boss is awesome enough to let me use the computer there. Christen also knew the store was dead last night.

The perfect time to spend four paid hours writing, right? Not so much.

She didn't leave until I did. That is, nine o'clock. Four hours after her shift was over.

I tried to write, I did. But when you've got a hyperactive 22 year old yammering in your ear (despite the fact that she knows you have work to do, and can see you attempting to do it), it's very difficult to get anything done.

It's not like I didn't drop hints. She was in the back, eating, still talking, and I said "Hey Christen. Writing here. Put food in your mouth and shut up." She laughed, and kept talking.

*headdesk*

So basically by the end of the night, I told her that she'd wasted four hours of my time.

I think she thought I was kidding.

Veteran's Day

Okay, so I'm a vet.

I did four years in the military, got out with an honorable discharge, and promptly burned all of my uniforms.

Needless to say, it wasn't for me.

I definitely have a love for my country though, and the deepest respect for the people that serve/have served.

I don't like Veteran's Day though.

For me, it's like Valentine's Day. Why have only one day to honor love or service or whatever? The other 364 days don't matter? Kind of crap.

But, that's not the point of this blog entry. The point is that I had a plan.

6:30 - Get up, grumble, walk around with one eye open.
8:00 - Take my son to school.
8:30 - Come home, eat, watch an episode of one of my shows to give myself time to wake up, start laundry.
10:00 - Write. Pause for 10 minutes breaks every 30, mostly used to swap around laundry.
1:00 - Fold massive pile of laundry on my bed.
1:30 - Write.
3:00 - Pick up my son at school, help with his homework, get ready for work.
4:00 - Work until 9:30.
9:30 - Retype what I wrote at work. I mean...I don't use paid time for writing! What are you talking about?
10:30 - 11:00ish - Go to bed.

Yeah.......So there's no school today. I feel that this will be less productive than I'd planned.

Sigh.

A Nose in Need...

I have a cold.

My movements are exaggerated and childlike, and though the house is empty, I find myself talking to myself. Now this is a normal occurrence, particularly when I'm plotting out a new arch for my book, but this is different.

Instead of just pressing "pause" on the remote, I feel the need to say the word as well. As if the mere utterance of my intention will make the effect more...effective.

And no, I'm not high on cold medicine. It's yucky, and I don't want to take it.

Yes, I am in fact a four year old when I'm sick.

Needless to say, my plan to spend the vast majority of this morning and early afternoon writing just isn't happening. I don't have the mental clarity to do dishes, let alone write my book.

Work is, no doubt, going to be interesting this evening.

November is, in my opinion, the worst time ever to fall ill. Not only is November a rather insane month for retail, but it's also NaNoWriMo. And I am something like 15,000 words behind on my count already. I don't have the time for this.

Dear Cold,
Please come back in a more opportune month. Like...never.
No love,
Kelly

The Paper Bleeds and Deadlines Loom

So my girlfriend, who is a hop, skip, and a jump away from getting herself published (the bitch), wants me to edit her manuscript before she sends it off to her agent.

That's all well and good. I don't mind. Part of me actually gets a contact high from doing it, given that she's so much closer to our shared goal than I am.

But, at the same time, I'm nervous.

As a writer, I know all too well what it's like to have someone take your baby, that you've put your blood, sweat and tears into, and hand it back a few days later, looking like a three year old has attacked it with crayons.

Editing, and being critiqued, makes us better writers. But it's till painful to have your child ripped to shreds by someone that doesn't know it like you do, and could never love it as well as it deserves.

Writers are parents, no matter what anyone says. And as a parent, I feel guilty criticizing Ali's.

It is pretty fun though.

In other news, NaNoWriMo started at midnight last night.

For those that don't know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. In a nutshell, you write 50,000 words in 30 days, or die trying.

Deadlines are good. Deadlines make you accountable to something or someone, so that you stop slacking off. Deadlines make me feel like I'm going to hyperventilate.

Honestly, it's not even the time constraint. I could write that much (probably more) in a month, no sweat. It's the thought of finishing something. Because if I finish something, I have to try and get it published. And that's the scary part.

That's why I envy Ali's bravery. Sending out your baby for the world to reject is terrifying.

I'm determined to do it though. I can't keep living like this. With a giant "What if?" hanging over my head. This is no way to live. No way to know what I'm made of. Because right now, all I'm made of is cowardice.

Ladder to the Top

A friend of mine has gained a huge success in the last couple of days. A success that, while not officially completed yet, is one of those that makes me sort of hate her, as it's a goal that we both have, and she beat me to.

Ali and I get along quite well, and she's well on the way to becoming my best friend, that's for sure. We work together, write together, hang out together...The only thing we're not doing is sleeping together. (Though...Hubba-hubba...)

When one of us is whooping the other at work, we make fun. We cuss one another, and use friendly, healthy competition to make ourselves better. It's how you grow, and given that we do care about each other as much as we do, there's no harm in a little friendly snipping, if it drives us further along.

With this though, I can't resent her. I can't let her success make me grumble and push myself further. I need to be happy for her, and leave it at that.

I'm a selfish person.

Even though she deserves it far more than I do (as I'm the Queen of Procrastination), and I'm not in a position where I can succeed in the same way, I'm grumpy. We have the same dream, and she beat me to it. And the worst part is, she keeps saying how her success is going to help me when it's my time. Which is true, and helpful, and nice. But still annoying.

Damn you, Ali. Why ya gotta be awesome, and make me feel like a slacker?!

I guess this means I need to get off my ass and finish something, doesn't it?

Pitfalls of television

The Stolen Child
by: WB Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

I was taking a break, and watching an old episode of one of my favourite shows. An episode, mind you, that I've seen a dozen times, but apparently I'm too bloody thick to get things until the unlucky thirteen.

There's a bit of a poem spoken at the end, and truly through the whole episode, that I missed, only thinking it was a lure for the child that is the focal point of the episode.

I'm a bit of a prat, have I told you that?

It's a poem by Yeats, which I felt the need to look up in full after catching it (finally). Reading it a couple of times, all thoughts of my hellish novel idea have flown right out the bleeding window. Instead, I want to write this.

What "this" is is still in the simmering stage, but isn't it lovely? The imagery that I'll never be able to duplicate, and the concept of a child being taken to another world, a "better" one?

Damn you, Yeats. Damn you to hell.

Houseguests and Cementing my Place in Hell

Lois Griffin: Stewie why don't you play in the other room?
Stewie Griffin: Why don't you burn in hell?

~Family Guy

My husband has his best friend here for the week. Which is fine, in theory. In theory, that means that the Captain of Nosy and Annoying will be occupied, and will leave me alone to write.

I never much believed in theories.

Instead, I've spent the last few days between work and the couch, watching the two of them stare at the television, like there isn't a great wide world out there for them to go explore. Annoying, yes, but nothing that I feel that I can get righteously irritated about, as they're technically not bothering me.

Unless breathing counts.

Speaking of righteous, I've picked a topic for my book. It's not any that I've outlined previously (because that would be too easy), but instead it stems from a conversation that may or maynot have been fueled by alcohol at three in the morning with a friend of mine. It's about the half-human daughter of the devil, who decides she wants to go to college on Earth.

I expect the Crazy!Christians to start lighting my front lawn on fire any day now.

Particularly because I will be (and already have done) putting words in not only the mouth of God, but of Jesus as well, and making Satan look more like a guy with a shitty job than the Emperor of the Damned.

Really, it's about a girl forced to redefine right and wrong, and learn what it means to be human. Kind of like Harry Potter.

At least, Harry and Eden's authors are similar in the fact that they will have insane crazies throwing eggs at their cars.

Should be fun!