Oliver

My roommate has this rambunctious little dog named Oliver. We don't know what he is exactly, but he has the strength of 10 elephants and the energy of 10 children at a bounce house party. He's a rescue and a trouble maker, but he also has a touch of the separation anxiety.

Dog Shaming: 

"I thought it would be fun to dig up a sprinkler 

and then roll in the mud pit I created"

Looking fabulous!

Like all dogs, Oliver worships the ground his owner walks on. Roommate Kim is pretty much his whole life, and he doesn't quite know what do with himself when she's away. This was evident in the conversation he and I had when she went out of town a little while back, without clearing her absence with him first.

Our conversation is best represented in screenplay format, I believe:

Oliver: (laying on the floor outside of Kim's bedroom door) Kimmie!!! Can you hear me? I'm here! Don't. Panic. We will get you out. Just make some noise if you can hear me!

Me: (coming out of the kitchen) Oliver, what are you crying about?

Oliver: Oh good you're here! It's Kimmie. She's trapped inside her room without me. I need you to use those magnificent opposable thumbs and open this door! Don't worry Kimmie, we're coming.

Me: She's not in there.

Oliver: (looking back over his shoulder at me) What?

Me: She went out of town for the day, she's not in her room.

Oliver: (stands and turns around toward me) What do you mean she "went out of town?" Where did she go?

Me: She just went to Canton for the "First Mondays" thing. She'll be back later.

Oliver: You don't know that for sure. Canton is 75.5 miles away. Anything could happen in 75.5 miles! What if she needs me....?

Me: (cracking open a coke zero) You are totally overreacting. She's gonna be just fine. Hey look! I have your stretchy ostrich.

Oliver: Damn my stretchy ostrich! This is no time for play

Me: (squeaking the ostrich toy) Squeak! Squeak!

Oliver: I can't believe she left me here. Alone to fend for myself. How could she do that to me?

Me: You aren't alone, I'm here.

Oliver: (sighing) Look, Jen, don't take this the wrong way.... But... you're no Kimmie.

Me: (muttering) I may as well be chopped liver...

Oliver: That would actually be delightful.

Me: You know what Oliver? I don't have to take this from you. And you didn't get this upset when she went to Michigan.

Oliver: She went to Michigan?!?!

Me: Oh lord. No. Forget I said it. Look, man, she's gonna be back later tonight. You're going to sleep most of that time away anyway. Let's just chill out, play some tug-o-war, maybe chase the laser pointer...

Oliver: (laying on his back with his feet in the air) All is lost.

Me: I know what will cheer you up. How about we watch a little Downton Abbey, huh?

Oliver: (rolling back over, one ear standing straight up) Did you say "Downton"?

Me: (Nodding and smiling with the remote in hand)

Oliver: Well I do love a good British drama.

Oliver goes to his toy box, picks out a rawhide bone and lays down on his bed. I start the episode of Downton Abbey and get comfy on the couch. By the end of the title sequence, all is calm and we're both whisked away to turn-of-the-century England. 

AND SCENE.

This was not an exaggeration. The dog LOVES British television. 

Thanks for reading!

5 Surprisingly Good Celebrity Novelists

These days it seems like every celebrity and everybody who thinks they're a celebrity has written a book.

Then, you read the fine print and see that really a ghost writer actually did all the work while the "author" babbled on about a series of unrelated experiences over a mimosa and a cigarette.

Anyway, that got me thinking.

I wonder who out there in the wild wood of Holly has actually written a real book. And not just a legitimate autobiography - if you're the coolest surviving member of the Rolling Stones then of course your memoirs are going to be amazing. But I wondered if any otherwise famous people had ever written a successful piece of fiction??

So, I took my curiosity to the interwebs and searched and searched and searched, and actually found some surprising information. I thought I'd just go ahead and share it with ya. There were quite a few celebrities who wrote books that don't suck, but here are 5 Surprisingly Good Celebrity Novelists.

The results may shock you.

Ok, more realistically they may illicit a "Huh...I didn't know he wrote a book" from you.

Colin Meloy of the Decemberists. The Indie rocker is also the author of a children's book entitled Wildwood: The Wildwood Chronicles, Book 1, a novel not surprisingly (if you're familiar with his music) inspired by folk tales. The story is about a of seventh-grade girl and her friend who end up on a quest to a mystical land to rescue the girl's baby brother from being sacrificed to an invasive, carnivorous species of ivy.

Ethan Hawke Yeah, really! My good ol' friend Ethan is the penman behind novels The Hottest State and Ash Wednesday.  The Hottest State follows the trials and tribulations of a dark, sensitive young man aspiring to be an actor in New York City. It's one of those coming of age love stories that shakes you up and makes you think about life. If The Hottest State is about the mistakes you make in your twenties, then Ash Wednesday is about the next stage of life: marriage and parenthood. Told through two points of view the novel follows an AWOL soldier and his pregnant girlfriend/wife, it's another raw, emotional novel designed to suck you in and leave you with lots to think about.

Ethan Hawke and Me, chillin' in London

Hugh Laurie Dr. House is notorious for his brilliance and his cruel but hilarious one liners, but he's also a pretty talented writer. Though he initially submitted the novel anonymously, Laurie has gained quite a bit of praise from his first book The Gun Seller. Told with that same biting sense of humor he's become famous for, this novel is a spy spoof about a retired British soldier who accidentally becomes involved in an underworld of illegal arms dealers, government secrets and lots of action.

Nick Cave Frontman of the genre-blending rock band Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds has written two well received novels that have put him in the company of Faulkner in some critics' opinions. And the Ass Saw the Angel is a Southern Gothic tale about the vengeance a mute boy takes out on his entire town of abusive, corrupt, religious nut-jobs. His second novel The Death of Bunny Munro is about an alcoholic, sex-addicted salesman and a looming serial killer.

Steve Martin Comedian, actor, banjo-player, and author. Steve Martin may be a genius. He's actually written several books comprising of non-fiction, essays and fiction. Here I'll mention his children's book Late for School - the adventure of one boy's attempt to make it to school, it comes complete with a CD of Martin singing the story in a collection of bluegrass songs. (I know. It's really cool.) But you can discover more of Steve Martin's genius here, at his site.

Thanks for reading!

Wronged

I've been relatively lucky my whole life. I mean to say nothing really bad has ever really happened to me. Sure I've been in a couple car accidents, but no one got hurt. I've never been badly injured, I've never been really sick, and no one close to me has ever encountered those things either (for which I am extremely grateful to the Lord, the Universe or whatever is out there). So when something bad did happen to me, I was met with a sort of disbelief, a sort of "no, you're mistaken. This kind of thing doesn't happen to me."

Yesterday was a dreary, cold day in North Dallas, so I decided to spend the day getting back into writing and working on my novel A Mouth Full of Teeth. There is major road construction going on in my neighborhood , and the pummeling of the bulldozer outside was shaking the entire house and I just couldn't take it. So I hastily got my stuff together and did something highly uncharacteristic: I went to the Public Library.

I know, I know. It's kind of a big deal for me, which you will know if you have been following my blogs. If you're new-ish to The Path to Publication, please see this post which will explain why I don't like and don't frequent libraries.

Anyway I pretty much spent all day at the library, and pretty much took me all day just to hammer out one page of new work. It takes a while to get back in the swing of things when you've been doing nothing but tax forms for 4 months (the day job). 15 minutes before closing I packed it up, put my brand new, beautiful Asus laptop in my backpack - a Christmas present from my wonderful parents - and headed out to my car. A vicious cold front had blown in while I was inside and I was just wearing a short sleeved Raconteurs shirt and skinny jeans - no jacket to speak of. I was planning on going in to work that evening to wrap some things up, but I didn't feel like heading there yet, especially sans jacket. So I headed to the most wonderful place on earth: Target.

Since it was freezing and starting to sprinkle, I tried to park as close to the Target entrance as possible. I found a spot in a row that was right in front of the door, and about 8 spaces in. I pulled in next to a tan, old POS sedan. I glanced over at the car to make sure I was a reasonable distance away from it (as one does) and locked eyes with the dude sitting in the back seat of the car. He was a miserable looking guy, white, messy brown hair, kind of long face, about my age. Being a Texan I did the closed-lip smile of acknowledgement we all do when we make eye contact with a stranger. The dude did not return the gesture.

Well... I thought, slightly annoyed at his rudeness. I grabbed my purse, got out, locked the car and headed in to Target. I really was just planning on picking up a cheap hoodie so I'd have something to wear and then moving on with my day. But as any female and any male who knows a female will tell you, you can't just run into Target for one thing and then leave. You  have to see what's new, what's on sale, what's coming.

I really only spent about 30 minutes inside. I bought my new jacket, made my way to the exit and stopped in that little area between the double doors to put my jacket on because it was now freezing balls cold. As I put my arm in through the jacket, a secret red door I had never noticed before opened and a Target person nearly walked right into me.

"Oh! I'm sorry," I said, shuffling aside.

"Oh, no, that's ok," said the Target person. She was mid-twenties, dark brown hair, freckle faced. "I was actually looking for you."

"Really??"

"Yeah. At least I think it's you. Um, do you drive a white Dodge?"

"Yeeees."

"Well, I don't want to alarm you, but we had a report of a vehicle break in on a white Dodge."

Color me alarmed. My heart clenched up and my jaw dropped. Oh no, my laptop.

"Do you want to go out and see if it was your car, and then come back and let me know? We can proceed from there."

"Yeah."

With a sinking feeling in my stomach I marched out into the cold night. There were no other cars parked around mine now. I couldn't see any damage on the drivers side. Please no, please no. Thank God my gun isn't in there anymore.

I walked around to the passenger side, and sure enough right under the front door was a glittering pile of glass. Here I let loose an internal string of curse words, most starting with "F". Knowing what I would find - or rather, wouldn't find - I inched closer to the door. My backpack, my new computer, my work of the day - was gone.

Oh, there's my window!

My shoulders slumped and I numbly went back inside. I felt so defeated. So violated. Stuff like that didn't happen to me. How could someone do this?

And then the image of the old car I had parked next to, and the miserable looking guy's face popped into my head. Jerks. While I didn't and don't have any proof, I know in my soul it was them. I know it was.

I found the Target person again and told her that it was indeed my car that had been broken into.

"Ok, well I have security footage of it happening, and I'm pretty sure I got a good shot of their license plate when they left."

 Blinking back tears, I called the police and relayed to the dispatcher what had happened.  About 15 minutes later an officer showed up and I lead him to my car. He asked me about what was missing, I told him about the car fool of miserables I had parked  next to, and he took lots of notes.

"To be honest," he said "We're probably not going to be able to do anything. The video footage from stores usually isn't very clear, it will probably show that something that looks like a person was by your car. And if they did get a shot of the license plate, it probably won't be clear enough to tell what it says. More than likely you aren't going to get your computer back. I'm sorry to tell you that, but I just want to be realistic."

I knew that was probably the case, and he was being very nice to me. But in my head I wanted him to set up a perimeter, block off the roads and interstates, put out an APB. Call the helicopters and the dogs and send the SWAT team after them. This was my stuff. Is there no justice?

I called my best friend to tell her what had happened. She very kindly came out to meet me and check on me. When I tried to tell her what had happened again in more detail, I go to the part about my laptop being gone and I just lost it. I broke down right there in the parking lot.

It's times like that when having a friend to lean on becomes the most important thing in the world.

It's easy for me to slip into a state of anger bitterness over the whole incident, and believe me I am angry and bitter. But my friends and family have been reminding me that things could have been much worse. They only took my laptop. My work, my stories, are saved in other places. I did loose that day's work, and some pages from another time, but that was it. I had not passwords or credit card info stored on that computer yet. Most importantly however, they didn't get me.

I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned from this. There probably is one, and I will probably realize it later. Right now I'm just hurt and upset and the only thing I can do to make myself feel better is to write.

Thank you for reading. It means the world to me =)

There Will be Blood...and Brains

With Halloween, my most favorite time of the year, looming in the near future, I have decided to resurrect a short story I started nearly a year ago and get down to business with it and kick its ass into something awesome.

A while back I had been looking for writing contests to enter so that I could start building my writing resume, when I came across a lit mag for western writers. I am not really into writing westerns, but I am from West Texas and I know more about cowboys and the open range than the average bear; and the criteria for the next contest had been horror. A western horror story.

This excited me more than I had expected and it didn't take long for the creative juices to spit out an idea of cowboys fighting zombies. Three vivid scenes - as vivid as a memory - bubbled up to my conscious.

The first, was of a man making a run for it out of a shoot out, but being gunned down by a sheriff. He falls to the ground, skids a little ways, kicking up a cloud of dust around him. The sheriff laughs and his deputies congratulate themselves. Then, no one notices as the dead man stiffly gets to his feet, and then clambers towards the men who shot him with nothing but brains on his mind.

The second was of a woman trapped in a small jail cell, trying to escape as the man in the cell next to her as changed into a zombie, and is stopping at nothing to get past the bars and into the cell with her. The thought of being trapped next to someone who is willing to break every bone in his body and pull himself around with his fingernails to kill you - is really terrifying to me. =)

The third was of a small white church exploding in a ball of fire and spray of wood, impaling and burning the zombies who surrounded it.

Those thoughts pretty much came to me on their own. The job was to link those images together and make a story out of them. A few weeks later, I had my outline. I still don't have a title for this story - I hate coming up with titles - but I'm working on it. I'm also open for suggestions! =D

So, now, without much further ado I would like to share with you the beginning of my short story. Caution - scenes contain violence and death and strong language.

Happy reading!

A piercing scream shot through the night.

            Rhett sat straight up. His Colt Peacemaker was cocked in his hand before he’d even fully awoken. Wide eyed, he searched the dark desert for his demons. But the landscape was empty.

From the corner of his bloodshot eye he could just make out Lee standing stalk still a few yards out from the campsite. His white long johns caught the light of the moon, giving him a glowing, phantom-like appearance. Lee took three deliberate steps backwards. His gun belt was tied fast around his waist, all three of his guns in the holsters.

“Somethin’s out there,” he reported. There was an even, almost jaded tone to his voice. No trace of fear.

Rhett stood and padded over to his right hand man. They had been drafted into the same North Carolina regiment during the war, and had ridden together ever since. Rhett and Lee had saved each other’s lives no fewer than six times. Not that either one was counting.

“Maybe it’s Munson or Ricky.” Rhett suggested. They had taken the first watch and should have been up by the campfire with the horses. Rhett cupped his hand to his mouth and whistled a quail call.

            No response.

            “I’ll take the perimeter.” Lee rested his hands on his guns and marched into the darkness.

            That left Rhett to check around the fire. Keeping his gun drawn he quietly crept towards the faint embers smoldering ahead. There was no time and no use in putting on a shirt or boots. The devil didn’t care how you looked when you came to meet him.

            Rhett reached the fire, but there was no sign of his men. The horses were still tied to a nearby mesquite tree, their ears pricked and alert but otherwise calm. An armadillo carcass hung off a makeshift spit above the fire. Rhett bent down to inspect the sandy ground. There were a few solid footprints here and there, but no traces of a struggle.

            Sighing, he sat down on the twisted trunk of an old tree. Rhett rubbed his eyes. It was too damn late and he was too damn tired to make sense of this.

            Back when the war first started, he would have chalked this disappearance up to his men simply goofing off and not following orders. But he had seen too much since then. Now he always expected the worst; The very worst.

            While Rhett struggled to shake the fatigue from his eyes, he did not notice two hands stretching up from behind the tree like two snakes poised and ready to strike; the rigid fingers curved like so many fangs. Slowly the limbs rose higher. Then, with impeccable speed, the hands struck. The fingers clamped down on Rhett’s shoulders and tore him off the tree.

            He kicked and flailed as he slammed into the ground. His Peacemaker slipped out of his hand and landed a few feet away. A guttural, inhuman snarl roared in his ears. The attacker pinned him to the ground.

            It was Munson.

Rather, what used to be Munson. What was once the chiseled face of a good man was now the bloated, putrid face of evil. The eyes - so full of blood - oozed from the corners like crimson tears. Grisly chunks of red clung to the thick moustache. The mouth growled and snapped at Rhett’s flesh. The tongue wriggled like a worm and the teeth clacked together with each empty bite.

            Rhett punched Munson in the head to try and back him off. He delivered blow after blow but the undeterred head continued chomping at the air. Rhett reached out for his gun. The head lunged. The clammy lips brushed against his cheek. 

            Rhett abandoned the gun and focused on keeping Munson at bay. He grabbed the head by the ears and pushed it as far away as he could. Snarling and grunting, the horrible head pressed closer and closer to his face.

            With a loud thwack, hot blood sprayed across Rhett’s face. Munson – head and body – rolled off of him. He sprang for his gun and spun around, just in time to see Lee removing his Apache tomahawk from Munson’s skull.

            Relieved, Rhett relaxed his wrist and let the barrel of his gun see the sky. He wiped his face on his forearm. That made for the seventh time Lee had saved his life. Not that he was counting.

            Lee took a step towards him. He held the tomahawk tightly in his fist and cocked his elbow. He eyed his friend suspiciously.

            “You bit?” He demanded.

            “No.”

            Rhett stepped closer to the light of the fire. He knew Lee wouldn’t take his word for it, just like he would never take Lee’s word on having been bitten. Countless numbers of men – dependable, honest men - had lied about being bitten by the dead, and countless numbers of lives had been lost because of it.

            Lee followed Rhett to the light keeping his weapon raised and ready. The fire cast awkward shadows over Lee’s rough face, and deepened the scar that ran from below his right eye down to his chin, distorting the corner of his mouth into a constant sneer. With sharp eyes he inspected Rhett’s body for wounds, but found none. He lowered the tomahawk.

            “Did you find Ricky?” Rhett asked.

            “Parts of him.”

            Rhett shook his head. There was no use in asking how or why this had happened. Some things weren’t meant to be known.

            “Let’s get what’s left into the fire.”

            The fire bulged and licked the sky as the flames greedily devoured Munson’s body. Greed and hunger, thought Rhett. That’s what keeps this world spinning.

            “Somethin’ on your mind, Rhett?” Lee asked, tossing Ricky’s arm into the hungry flames.

            “Just keep thinkin’ about why we’re doin’ this. All the killin’ we done, all the bodies we burned…it doesn’t seem to be doin’ no good. The dead keep rising. The innocent keep dying.”

            “Someone’s got to do somethin’. It might as well be us.”

            Rhett knew Lee was right. It didn’t matter how tired and how sick he was of riding and killing. He was a man of action. He could no sooner stand by and let the Devil devour the world than he could stand by and let some thief steal his horse. This was his calling; the only thing he’d ever been good at. This was his crusade.

            “It’s another day’s ride to Boracho,” Rhett said. “We’ll pick up reinforcements there. If there’s anything left.”

Oh How Pinteresting!

I have now entered that magical stage of adulthood known as Renting a House. Renting a house comes with a great deal of responsibility; namely the responsibility of making said house as cute as possible. So where did I turn in my quest for excellent decorating?

Pinterest of course!

If you have somehow missed the Pinterest bandwagon and don't know why I keep mispelling the word "interest", then you should know that it is "an online pin board" where you can look at all kinds of things online and then "pin" it to your board. (AKA, save it to your account so you can come back and look at it later) It's like window shopping. And it's a great place to get ideas for recipes, decorating, gardening, outfits and pretty much everything and anything. The best thing about the DIY section is that you can follow the link to get directions on how to make things...awesome things.

Things like...

A floating bookshelf!

A crayon melt to add color to a boring tan room!

Ways to make Mason jars useful!

Inspiration to turn this...

Into this...

A way to display your jewelry!

And lastly, a way to display your hip record collection!

Yes, my three rooms have become Pinterest rooms and no, I'm not ashamed of it. I've probably spent more money trying to make these things than if I had just gone out and bought a simple shelf or an ordinary jewelry box. But I am a maker; and I hate the ordinary.

So nevermind that I spray painted the bottoms of my feet blue or that my mother told me I don't have nuts. I created something. I did it myself.

So, here's an update: there now exists an Official Facebook Page to SpinningJenni's Path to Publication. And that is exactly what it's called. Please like my page! You'll get exclusive content of my goings on, and access to my posts. The main reasons I'm doing this are to get to know my readers a little better, generate more traffic to my blog, and because I don't want any creepers stalking my personal page.

Thanks for reading! =)

Grace

I have been very blessed and very lucky to have been able to be in the room while my very best friend gave birth to her baby girl. It was miraculous, beautiful, joyful...all that cheesy stuff you are always told by your mom and her friends while you're sitting there going, "Yeah. Right. That's disgusting."

(Some names and places have been changed. Just go with it.)

Shavia and Jose, my best good friend and her husband, had asked me several months ago if I would like to join them in the delivery room to take pictures of the baby after she was born. I was honored and flattered that they would invite me to share this moment with them. I accepted with tears in my eyes. I was just so touched.

"Do you think you'll be able to handle it?" Shavia asked point blank after I said yes.

I don't do well with blood and bodily functions. When I see my own blood, I pass the eff out. When someone else is bleeding, I feel as though my stomach has been filled with worms and I have been dunked in cold water. When people tell me about that time they broke a bone, I close my eyes and shout "No, no, no!"

So, it was a valid question.

"Of course I can handle it. I mean, I might pass out. But I'll be totally fine. Just have someone shake me."

Cut to six months later, AKA Monday night.

I had been hanging out at Shavia's house watching Baby Mama with her until Jose got home from a late night at the office. Towards the end of the movie she got really quiet and seemed extremely uncomfortable. I asked her if she was alright, but she would just brush it off saying it was heart burn and cramping. She has the pain tolerance of a prize fighting pit bull, so she's really hard to read when it comes to that. I took her word for it and went home at about 11:30.

11:40 she sends me this text:

I doubt anything is going to happen tonight. But you should keep your phone near you just in case.

I had gotten texts like this before, and I always kept my phone near me at night, so I didn't think much of it. I went to sleep at 12:09.

My morning alarm went off. I groaned and shut my eyes tighter. It can't be 6:30 already! I rolled over to hit snooze. Mid-roll I realized that the tune wasn't my alarm but my reggae ring tone. Picking up my phone, I saw Jose's name and face staring back at me, under the time 12:59am.

"Hello?" I asked, completely befuddled.

"Hey. You need to come to the hospital."

"The hospital? Why? The hospital??"

"Yes. You need to go to the place where babies are born."

"Oh. Oh. OH!"

"Shavia and I are almost there. Kim is at our house with the kids."

"Ok. So I need to come straight to the hospital. Not your house?"

"Right. Unless you want to go to our house."

"No! No I'm coming to the hospital. I just wanted to make sure I heard you right. Ok. I will get dressed and come to the hospital. Bye."

I sat up and swung my legs off my bed. "Ok. Go time." I quickly thought of the essentials I needed: Jeans, shoes, camera, a spot of make up. I hardly remember getting all these things together, but I was out the door at 1:06am.

Driving through my desolate neighborhood, I started to wonder if the conversation I'd just had was real. I had been so asleep, and there was about a 50% chance it had been a dream. Nothing added up quite right. The plan had always been that as soon as Shavia went into labor, she would call me first. I live with Kim, and there were no lights on in the house when I got up and came down stairs and the doors to her rooms were still shut.

What if I get all the way to the hospital and none of this was real?

I decided to voice text Kim to make sure.

So you are at Jose's?

Yeah. Shavia's in a lot of pain. I've never seen her like that before.

I floored it. Shavia birth's babies quick. There wasn't a minute to spare.

The hospital looks like a castle, and it's not exactly down town, so it was very dark. I couldn't tell where I should turn in at, so I finally just chose an entrance and wnet with it. I quickly came to a fork in the massive parking lot, and found a sign that gave me a left and a right option.

< Deliveries
> Hospital

"Well...I mean she is delivering..."

I was baffled! You would think that a hospital would make things crystal clear to understand but I didn't know what they meant by "deliveries." It was a delivery room, after all. In what context were they using the word "delivery"?

I went with my sleep deprived gut and drove towards Deliveries.

When I got there the place was completely deserted. I knew this couldn't be right, because I didn't see Jose's car. At 1:22am I called him.

"Hey, it's Baylor right?"

"Yeah. It looks like a hotel."

It looks more like a castle to me. "Ok. I'm here."

"We're on the second floor."

I ran up to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" asked the cute, blond security guard.

"My friend is having a baby."

"Second floor."

Elevator. Second floor. Fancy lobby with way too much furniture blocking my way. Another security guard.

"Down this hall, take a left. Push the intercom to get a nurse to help you."

Hall way. Sealed doors. Intercom.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking Shavia Knight."

"Hold on. Who are you?"

I waited in the hall for about 5 minutes until Jose came and got me. He lead me to the room, where Shavia was already in a gown, on the bed, talking to a nurse who had an accent I couldn't understand.

"Hi. I'm glad you're here." She said to me, through grimaces.

Everything happened very fast next. They hooked Shavia to an IV, made her sign a million papers, asked her a million questions, went running for the anesthesiologist (CRNA), gave her ice cubes, told her to breath and called her doctor. The CRNA came waltzing in and the nurse said "We are either going to have an epidural or a baby."

I wasn't going to watch the epidural process. I don't especially love needles and I'd head horror stories of how big and epidural needle is. But as they pushed my friend over and the CRNA painted circles on her lower back, I couldn't keep my eyes from wandering over.

The CRNA held up the first syringe, and the needle glinted in the spot light. Oh that's not so bad. That's normal sized.  That shot came and went. Then he pulled out another needle. One that looked like a drill bit.

The blood drained from my face and I quickly looked away. Holy shit that's big! Don't pass out. Keep it together. I concentrated on breathing in and out and pictured a calm meadow in my mind. This picture of calm was soon shattered.

The CRNA didn't get the epidural to Shavia in time. The baby was coming and there was no stopping it. She was coming au natural. No pain meds.

I'm not going to go into detail here. I don't think it's appropriate, and you probably don't want to hear it. All I can say, is natural child birth is exactly how it's portrayed in the movies. They don't exaggerate.

At 2:39am the nurse pulled out a screaming baby girl. I saw the whole thing. I saw her come into this world. It wasn't gross, or scary or messy. It was honestly and truthfully the most amazing thing I have ever seen.

I was so proud of my best friend. So happy for their family. And so excited to see the little baby I had felt kicking around for months.

She is perfect.

"The miracle of life" is an over used expression that is synonymous with health text books. But life really is a miracle. There is a new person in the world. She's one of us now. She's going to laugh and play and read and watch movies and go to school. It's easy to get caught up in thinking of all the things she's going to do, but when you stop and look at this tiny little baby just a few days old who can't even hold her own head up...it really just blows your mind that this life is even possible.

I wish the deepest congratulations to my friends and all of their family.

Thank you for reading. =)

A Hard Day's Night

I recently went to Georgia with some friends of mine. They were going to visit family and I had never been to Georgia so I said "I'm down. Let's go!"

It also didn't hurt them to have an extra man on defense as they were driving from Dallas to North Georgia with 2 children under the age of 5. Another added bonus other than the pleasure of my company, was that the kids love me. And what's not to love???

So we left one stormy Friday evening after we'd all gotten home from work. There was a lot of crap to load and even though we were all in a mad dash of efficiency and team work, we still ended up leaving about 3 hours later than planned. This put us at crossing the Mighty Mississippi at approximately 2:45 in the AM. Because it would have been mass suicide to continue on, we stopped at a hotel for the remainder of the night/morning.

I ended up sharing a bed with their 4 year old daughter, who was very excited about being in a new place and didn't quite grasp that even though she had been asleep for a while, it was not actually time to be awake. I climbed into bed and as soon as my head hit the pillow my cramped neck muscles started to relax and my heavy eye lids slid shut. Sleep, sweet sleep was on it's way.

"Um...Miss Jenni?" The tiny whisper sent my eyelids flying open.

"Yes?"

"You can sleep with Pink Puppy. Ok?"

"Ok."

A small stuffed dog was shoved into my arm pit. I waited as the little girl re-situated herself on her side of the bed and after 30 seconds of wonderful silence I gently closed my eyes. I was so excited for sleep I almost giggled.

"Um...Miss Jenni?"

"Go to sleep!" her father said from across the room. "It's not time for talking. It's time for sleeping. Leave Miss Jenni alone."

A tiny hand began to softly stroke my forehead. I raised an eyebrow. Physical touch is not my favorite part of life, especially when I'm trying to sleep.

"It's ok Miss Jenni." Soothed the little girl. "Daddy will make it all better."

I couldn't help but laugh. Delerium had set in.
"No more talking!" Said her mother. "You can play with Miss Jenni in the morning. Everyone needs to go to sleep."

I regained my composure and everything was silent again. I laid there wide-eyed waiting for something else to happen. But nothing did. I waited another 5 minutes...no sound, no movement. Finally. I smiled and closed my eyes.

"Um...Miss Jenni?"

"Noooo!" I moaned.

"The animals are nice."

"Go to sleep!"

The next morning I ate grits for the very first time at a breakfast buffet that included fried chicken right next to the bacon. We finally got to our destination later that afternoon, where I was introduced to all the dogs and got to watch everyone enjoy a second Christmas. It was all very relaxing and warm. Bed time rolled around soon, and the aforementioned little girl was not too keen on sleeping all by herself in such a big, unfamiliar house.

"Would you mind sharing a bed with her again?" Her mother asked apologetically. "She said she's afraid to sleep by herself...."

Of course I didn't mind. These people were like family to me, and I'm always trying to be helpful. Besides, I figured by the time I went to bed the little girl would already be asleep.

I was wrong.

She was wide awake when I pulled back the covers. I pushed her small menagerie of stuffed animals aside and climbed in next to her. I told her we had to be quiet and go to sleep. She seemed fine with this and laid down. I reached over and turned off the lamp, hoping that tonight would be easier than the night before.

"Um...Miss Jenni? I can't find her head."

"W. T. F."
I rolled over to her, completely thrown off by that statement. All I could think of was that horse scene from The Godfather. You know the one.

What I saw instead was the body of a small porcelain doll, with a sharp metal rod sticking straight out of from between it's shoulders like a spine. Unsettling is an understatment. I sat up, blinking at the horrid little thing.

"Will you help me find her head?"

"Um...this is weird. Why don't we wait til morning when there's light and we can see?"

"Oh! Haha, I found it. Will you put it back on for me?"

I put the creepy doll head back on it's metal neck stick and handed it back. What...an event.

The rest of the week wasn't quite as disturbing, but I hardly got any sleep. This child did not stop moving. She tossed, she turned, she snuggled, she kicked - a lot. One night her hand hit my in the side of the head and work me up. I reached up to move her hand away only to realize that it wasn't a hand at all. It was a foot. I sat up to find the girl with her feet on the pillow and her head down by my knees, sound asleep. As I didn't want to get kicked again, I picked her up and turned her around. Amazingly, she stayed dead asleep the entire time.

Here's an interesting fact about 4 year olds: They do not experience jet lag. This kid woke up at 6:00 am every morning, just like at home. Which meant I felt like it was 5. AM. And when I say she woke up this is what I mean...

Popping straight up out of bed like something from The Exorcist declaring with glee, "I'm awake!"

"Great...go see Nanna and Papa."

Even though I had no sleep, I also had no shortage of entertainment. I had a fabulous time in ATL and got to go shopping at a real Piggly Wiggly (they didn't have anything we needed, but I got a shirt out of it). I even saw someone driving their 4Runner with their foot hanging out the window. It was a wonderful time with wonderful people and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Though I might think twice before sleeping with a 4 year old again...

Thanks for reading! =)

I Can Be Your Hero Baby

I am a hero.

Yeah, I'm saying it. No sense in being bashful about it. You don't ever see Batman going "No, actually...I'm not him. People make that mistake all the time. I just wear this latex suit because it breaths well when I jog."

I saved a life this week, y'all.

Here's the back story...

At my current dwelling there resides no less than 7 beta fish. 5 of which are located in the kitchen. As you probably know, beta fish really like to call themselves Siamese Fighting Fish and much like the Offspring song, you gotta keep 'em seperated. I bring this up because there are fish tanks everywhere, and I think it's hilarious.

Anywho...Archimedes is a small white/albino beta who tanks in a window sill above the kitchen sink.

Earlier this week, my roommate/co-worker/homie Shayla and I were stumbling around the kitchen trying to get our lives together to go to work. Since neither of us had had coffee or breakfast yet, we were basically bumping around the kitchen trying not to fall over while packing Greek yogurt and cheese sticks. If you've ever seen someone run a Dizzy Bat Race at a baseball game...that's how we look in the morning.

I had just manuevered around Shayla to dump an old glass of water in the sink when I noticed that the pink rose in the green glass vase on the window sill had dried up and died. I don't know, it's still kind of pretty that way, I thought as my eyes slid down to the bottom of the vase.

Then I saw it.

I double-blinked. Stared. Double blinked again.

There, lying on the other side of the vase, was a very still, very dried up Archimedes.

"Oh, no!" I gasped.

He looked like this little pink plastic fish I got from the dentist when I was a kid: his little beedy black eyes staring straight at me, his mouth gaping open, laying completely motionless on his side. I vainly searched the fish tank to make sure that he wasn't still in there and that the fish toy from my childhood hadn't pulled some kind of Toy Story trick to put itself back in my life. Unfortunately, the tank was empty.

"What is it?" Shayla asked. She was in the laundry room, which connected to the kitchen, moving clothes into the dryer.

"Um..." I started. Archimedes is Shayla's fish, and I really didn't want to break the news to her that her fish was dead so early in the morning. Especially since he was bought to replace her last fish that died.

"Do I even want to know?" She asked, reading the look of dismay on my face. I could tell from her tone that she already knew what was wrong.

"No. You don't."

"I can't handle it. I can't see it. I have problems...the texture.."

"I know, I know. I'll take care of it."

I sighed and ripped a paper towel from the holder and then scooped poor Archimedes up inside it. Fish deserve a water buriel, so I headed for the bathroom to flush him. As I stepped into the bathroom, I felt a small tap-tap in my palm. I figured it was probably just his little fish body settling in the paper towel, but I decided to check just to be sure. I peaked inside the wadded up paper towel. Archimedes lay still. Then suddenly his tail fin swished back and forth.

"Wait a minute! There's still hope!" I remembered from my beta research that betas actually breath by filtering water through their gills and by gulping the air.

Shayla was my best good friend. She loved her fish dearly, as one would love a dog or a small child. This fish could be saved. I knew what I had to do.

I dumped Archimedes from the paper towel into my hand. He made no other movements than a weak swish of his tail fin. Beta lungs are tiny, be careful.  I lifted his body up to my face, put his little open mouth up to mine and I breathed a small bit of air into his little lifeless body.


Not really. Don't worry, I didn't perform fish CPR. And I wouldn't put my lips on a fish unless it were fried and battered first.

Here's what actually happened...

"He's alive!" I cried.

"Are you serious?!"

I ran back to the kitchen sink and dumped Archimedes into his tank.  Please don't go belly up, I thought. I had no idea how long he'd been out of water. But as dry and still as he looked I assumed it had been a while.

Well sure enough, the little dude starts swimming all over the place.

"He's totally swimming. He's alive." I said in disbelief.

We watched in stunned silence as little Archimedes swam all around his tank, clearly relieved to be back in his natural habitat. He appeared to be fine, other than the fact that because he'd been laying in the direct sun for who knows how long, his little white body had gotten completely sunburned. No joke. The dude was bright pink.

So yeah, I was 30 minutes late for work. And yeah, betas only cost 3 dollars. But I saved his life. He could have been flushed to smithereens. I saved him. He lives to swim another day.

We don't actually know why he was out of his tank. Betas are known jumpers, so he must have jumped out, but we don't know why and I don't know how he ended up like 7 inches away from his tank. He's still doing fine, although his skin is peeling.

How many lives have YOU saved today?
(question not open to doctors, certified life savers or professional rescuers)

Thanks for reading! =)

The Hiatus Explained

It's been a long time. A really long time.

I had to take a hiatus from blogging and writing around the end of October until now-ish, because even though I have a full time, year round, grown up day job it is still very seasonal. Starting at the end of October I was working 12 hour days plus weekends so my day job turned into an All-the-Freaking-Time Job.

And that left very little time for anything I enjoyed. Except drinking. But even that fell to the bottom of the priority list.

That, my friends, is how you know you're not in college anymore.

Anyway, I stopped writing. Completely. Which really sucks, because it's a huge part of who I am.

I'm trying to get back into the swing of it though, and get back on my Path to Publication. My frist step is to get back to blogging. I miss my super awesome readers, and all of your support. You mean a lot to me.

It's probably going to be a bit of a rough start. Like riding a bike again for the first time in 7 years, it's going to be wobbly, uncomfortable and dangerous for pedestrians. But with a little bit of patience and determination I think I'll be running again smoothly. (I apologize for the mixed metaphor there at the end.) (See what I mean about wobbly?)


As a welcome back present, I leave you with this...

Thanks for reading! =)

A Conversation With Stephen King

Last week I got to cross a big item off the Bucket List. One that I never really thought would get crossed off, so I actually had forgotten about it until the opportunity presented itself in crazy, random sort of happenstance way.

Stephen King was in Dallas last week promoting his new novel 11/22/63 (about a guy who goes back in time to try to stop the assassination of JFK), and at the last minute I found myself a ticket to attend. It was a live interview hosted by journalist Lee Cullom, who sounded a lot like Barbra Walters with a head cold.

So I'm sitting in the second balcony at the Majestic Theater about 3 rows from the back and out walks Mr. King on to the small stage. This was an incredible, pinch-me-am-I-dreaming? moment. My early teenage years were cram packed with Stephen King novels. I've seen all of his book-turned-movies. I watched The Shining repetitively as a kid and freaked out when I learned it was a real hotel. But on top of that, I look to Stephen King as a sort of mentor on my Path to Publication. I've read his book On Writing several times and I always find a little pearl of wisdom that I hadn't found before, and it's always just enough to keep me going.

The interview was perfection.

The first thing Mr. King says to the audience is "You know, I was just going over insurance plans for car insurance, and I came across an interesting statistic. 50% of people who attend and event - like this one - forget to lock their cars. So...anyone could climb in the back and hide there."

The audience laughed, pleased that their favorite horror writer was just as creepy as they'd hoped.

"Everyone laughs when they're all together," he continued, "But sooner or later...you're going to be alone."

Loved. It.

The of course discussed the new novel and the research that went into it, but they also talked about some really off-the-wall stuff that had nothing to do with anything. For example, Stephen King has just finished a series with Marvel called American Vampire (yay!) so Lee the journalist asked Mr. King what his favorite comic books were.

"I've always preferred Batman over Superman. One reason is because Batman is like a real guy. But the other thing is...well, I've never been able to understand how Superman and Lois Lane would have sex."

Queue audience laughter and slightly frightened journalist.

"Because, I mean...okay, when Superman goes to the bathroom that has got to be like the shit of steel. Right? And when he needs to blow his nose, what does he blow his nose on? You see where I'm going with this..."

As everyone, myself included, was laughing hysterically and the journalist was covering her face trying to regain composure, I thought to myself - "This is awesome. That totally sounds like a conversation I would have with one of my friends!"

Stephen King also talked about his experience working with Michael Jackson on a music video. I personally don't know what video they're talking about and Mr. King couldn't even remember the song it was before, but he said it ended up being like "Son of Thriller."  Anyway, the story goes like this:

Mr. King was working on the set of The Stand when his assistant told him he had a phone call. Mr. King said, "I'm kind of busy. Take a message."

To which the assistant responded very excitedly, "But it's Michael Jackson."

Mr. King said, "Alright, I'm curious." So he took the call.

According to him, he heard a very high pitched voice say "Stephen, I want to make the scariest music video anyone has ever seen. Will you help me do it?"

Mr. King answered in an equally high pitched voice, "Okay Michael."

He said he never worked face to face with Michael and never got to meet him; his work was all more behind the scenes kind of stuff. Then, several months after Mr.King had finished his part of the video Michael Jackson called his house in Maine. Mr. King wasn't there but his wife had answered and gave Michael the number where her husband could be reached.

5 minutes later, Michael Jackson calls back and he is weeping. "I'm so sorry," he said. "When you gave me the number I didn't have a pen so I wrote it out in the carpet, and when I went to dial the number the carpet had sprung back up!"

I had tears in my eyes. I mean, who does that??

"So," said Stephen King, "My working experience with Michael Jackson was very brief, and very weird."

I didn't get to meet Stephen King but I got to be in the same room with him and see him "in real life" and that was good enough for me. The evening did not disappoint. I got to hear the greatest story I had ever heard in my life about Michael Jackson.

"It's not nice to laugh at someone who has passed away," Stephen King scolded us. "But let's do it anyway!"

Parentheses

I know, I know. It has been 2 weeks since my last post and I've gotten all off my schedule and I left you hanging with a "To be continued..." last time. 

I'm sorry.

I haven't had time/been able to write anything because I have been in the process of moving the last two weeks. And I have been pulling 9 to 11 hour days at work which have left me completely brain fried. I haven't been able to write anything at all the last couple weeks. Partly because of the time management issue and partly because my computer had been hidden among a towering inferno of boxes. I mean, I just found my bath towels five minutes ago. 

I am going to make it my number one goal this week to get back on the blogging schedule. I've missed it terribly. And I have so much to share with you!

But that will have to wait. Right now I'm sweaty and tired and still shaking the dirt out of my hair from Fun Fun Fun Fest in Austin over the weekend. I'm drinking a delightfully chilled Moscato, and then taking a much needed shower and getting some much needed shut-eye. 

More posts to come very soon, I promise!

As always, thanks for reading! =)

OMG Y'all (part 1)

This last weekend I drove out to Lubbock, TX to visit my very good friend Lindsey. There's nothing really remarkable about that in itself. Just a 5 and a half hour drive cross-country to see an old friend.

Except that I'm directionally challenged.

It should have been a straight shot with one turn. One turn. I zigged when I should have zagged.

So there I am, the only car on a pitch black, two-lane highway with only the moon and big empty cotton fields keeping me company, no clue where I'm at and my cell phone won't work because I'm out of range. Not. Cool. And I passed by a restaurant named The Feed Bag located directly across from a dead skunk. Because that's appetizing.

I'm going in and out of spotty coverage when Lindsey finally calls me to ask where I'm at.

"I don't know," I groan. "The last form of civilization I saw was a place called Jean."

"Bahahaha! Have you gone through Olney yet? It's the  home of the One Armed Dove Hunt."

"Maybe...I'm not sure. There's nothing out here. Hold on...is that? OH MY GOD. There is a grim reaper, on stilts in the middle of the street!"

That's right. Let me say that again, this time with emphasis. There was a GRIM REAPER on STILTS in the MIDDLE OF THE STREET.

Oh, Sweet Jesus, what new hell is this?  Thought I.

I somehow made it past the grim reaper and his scythe without taking him or anyone else out as I drove by, and continued on into the black nothingness that is West Texas. A few hours later and I was all alone again with no cell service and no clue where I was. I remembered that I had a map in my glove box so I pulled over to the side and parked in front of about 5 deer.

"Alright, it's cool. I am not lost. I got this." I told myself as I rummaged through my glove box. I found my proof of insurance, some tissues and a gun, but no map.

"Eff my life."

I sat back in my seat and looked out over my steering wheel. The deer stood there blinking at me as if they were saying "Who doesn't carry a map with them? Stupid."

"I'm not the stupid one. You're the ones eating grass on the side of a highway that doesn't even have a shoulder.Stupids."

I figured the best thing to do was to just keep going. I would have to get reception again at some point. A couple hours later and I could no longer pronounce the names of the towns coming up. This is when I started to get worried again. I pulled over at an Allsup's in Quanah to buy a map.

I found a map of Texas (now 40% larger!) and spread that bad boy out right there in the store. I traced from where I had left to where I was supposed to have gone and then started looking all around for Quanah. It took me several seconds. My eyes drifted up towards the Oklahoma boarder. I saw it.

"You have got to be kidding me."

I was about a quarter-inch from Oklahoma.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Texas geography I am including this map so that you can better appreciate my dismay.

This is where I was supposed to go

This is where I went

I took a moment, folded that map up and stood in line behind a girl in a shirt that said "Boogie Woogie Mamacita" with jeans that were about two sizes too small, and then back tracked a good 35 miles to find a highway that would take me to Lubbock.

I left DFW at 5:00pm Friday. I should have arrived at Lubbock at 10:30 pm Friday. I actually got there at 1:45 am Saturday.

What a disaster.

Once I finally got there, my weekend was great. I went to a corn field maze shaped like Buddy Holly, got my hair did and got to have a lot of laughs with one of my very good friends.

I could have gotten angry and stressed out about being lost - and if I'd ended up in another state I probably would have been. But I kept my cool and chose to just accept it. Some of the best stories I've ever come away with are from times that I've gotten lost.

I actually think it's kind of nice that even in these times where technology is everywhere and you can trace where people are just by knowing their phone number, it is still possible to be completely alone and get completely lost in a true middle of nowhere. I actually felt at ease in the blank spaces of the map; with just me and the moon.
Thanks for reading! =)

(This is just what happened on the way to Lubbock. Come back later to read about what actually happened in Lubbock)

Oh The Horror

I have a deep and profound love of horror.

I have my whole life. As a kid (and still to this day quite frankly) my favorite part of Willy Wonka was when they take the boat into the tunnel and Gene Wilder is reciting that eerie poem with a look of insanity in his eye while behind him images of chicken's getting their heads chopped off are being projected and everyone is screaming. If you had asked me when I was six what my favorite movie was, I would have told you Jaws. While other kids my age were watching Cinderella and The Little Mermaid over and over again, I was watching Terminator 2, and Tremors over and over again. And then I would go and re-enact my favorite scenes from those movies with my little brother.

I don't know where this fascination came from. Was I born with it? Was it something I learned along the way? It's the classic nature/nurture dispute. I'm sure the ghost stories my grandma used to tell me had something to do with it.

These thoughts have been on my mind as I've been working on my short horror story about zombies and cowboys. I've surprisingly never written horror before, and I'm finding it quite a challenge. Sure, my novel A Mouth Full of Teeth is about werewolves, but there's nothing scary about it. Suspenseful? Yes. Violent? Definitely. But not really scary.

I want this zombie story to be scary. And it's a challenge to get the same dread and heart-thumping anxiety out of the written word that you get out of watching it on screen. I want my reader to be uncomfortable, which means as the writer, I have to make myself uncomfortable. As I write this story I have to delve into a dark side of myself. I have to unlock the demons and monsters that frighten me and let them come out and play. I have to push myself to the edge and sit in the dark, blaring The Black Angels and Marilyn Manson.

For inspiration, I've turned to the one book I've ever read that actually made me squirm and not want to "see" what happened next. That book is Let The Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. If you've seen the movie, you already know it's an awesome horror story. As usual, the book is infinitely better, but it's also much more disturbing. What happens in the movie is only half of what goes on in the book. So read it. Anyway, I'm trying to incorporate some of the same tactics as Lindqvist used to draw every last drop of sweat from my reader.

I can't wait for it to be read. I won't post the whole story here, as I am trying to win something from it and possibly get it published in a lit mag, but I will post parts of it and I'm sure I'll come up with some way to share the whole thing with you. The least I can do to thank you for following my shenanigans is to make you scream.

But not in a weird way....

Thanks for reading! =)

Blink-182 "Neighborhoods" Rocks My World

Here is a short, rushed review of Blink-182's new album Neighborhoods I just felt compelled to write after listening to it the whole way through.

Mark, Tom and Travis are at it again.

If you're anything like me, then you grew up listening to Blink-182. You pumped your fist to "Dammit", you laughed your brace-face off at the music video for "What's My Age Again?" and "Adam's Song" became your own personal anthem. And you were devastated when Blink broke up.

Blink-182 are back to doing what they do best. Their new album, just released on DGC Records, sounds incredible with the familiar riffs and insane drums, and the complimentary way Tom DeLong and Mark Hoppus' voices blend together. Though it sounds quintessentially Blink, it sounds totally fresh and new. A more mature sound for a more mature audience.

Mark Hoppus said he "couldn't write a happy song for this album," and it's true that the music is wrought with emotion and dark compared to some of their earlier stuff. But despite this, the boys are able to walk the line between angsty and jaded and deliver heartfelt, earnest music that is both believable and relate-able to the listener.

My favorite song so far is "After Midnight" - about two people always being there for each other no matter what. It has a strong hook and a great melody and will probably be some lucky pop-punk couple's song.

If you want to hear an awesome showcase of Travis Barker's mad drum skills (and I know you do) check out track 5 - "Heart's All Gone."

Look, if you have any doubt about whether you want to buy this album or not, just effing do it. The CD delivers all that Blink-182 greatness that you love. You will not be disappointed.

Loser Kids rejoice!

Excuse me, do you have any Bettas?

I have a problem.

I have far too many hobbies.

I have steampunk, I have photography, I have writing (which is actually more of a lifestyle choice), I have painting, I have reading and now... I have Betta Fish collecting (commonly pronounced bay-ta but actually spelled b-e-t-t-a).

It all started a couple months ago.

A co-worker friend and I decided that we needed to bring life into our sad little cubicles, but babies were too high maintenance. That's when she suggested getting a Betta fish. They're easy to take care of and hard to kill. Perfect for our atmosphere.

So she got a fish and I got a fish and everyone thought it was funny, but a great idea. People love coming into our cubes and gazing at our Siamese fighting fish. And no, we do not put them in a bowl together and have after-hours mail room bare-knuckle fish fighting. We keep them in their own tanks and we love them. We love them a whole lot. So much, it might be unhealthy.

Anywho, the both of us being nerds we scoured the internet and every fish dealer in the DFW area to learn every single fact and opinion about Betta fish care. We are very close to becoming Betta fish experts. So I can add that to my list of accomplishments.

Well a week passed and we went to another pet store that happened to have an amazing selection of Bettas and she caved and bought another one. I decided that I would get things together to make a steampunk tank for my apartment and get another Betta once it was done.

Cut to last Friday. Another co-worker decided she was ready for a Betta at her desk so we all went to the aforementioned pet store with her. While she looked for the scariest fish she could find, I wandered around to the back of the store where a few more Betta's were being stored.

And then I saw her.

A tiny little female crowntail Betta. She looked at me and gazed into my soul. And as I stood there staring back into her beady little fish eyes, I knew that we were meant to be together.

So what did I do? I bought her. I bought her and another tank and more decorations and I set up another aquarium at my desk.

I'm crazy. Just straight up, certifiably crazy. So crazy that I will probably buy the new Coldplay album coming out this week despite it's pretentious title and the fact that I swore to never support Coldplay.

WTF is happening to me?

Thanks for reading! =)

Brrrains!

I'm working on a short story that I plan to send in to at least one Literary Magazine/Writing Contest. I'm not sure what the rules are on submitting one story to multiple contests, because what if it won two different contests? I know that is incredibly unlikely, but a lot of these contests want to claim rights and whatnot and that could turn into a big scary mess. That'll have to be another post...

Where was I?

Yes, my short story! The contest that I have in mind for this particular story is a western themed contest. The rules are that the story must contain one or more cowboys and it must be a thriller/suspense/horror story.

So where did my mind immediately go?

Cowboys and zombies.

The best of both genre worlds, in my opinion.

Rugged, tough, manly cowboys versus bleeding, brain eating zombies in 19th century apparel. I think it's going to be awesome, and I'm having a great deal of fun writing it. I feel like there's not as much pressure riding on this story as there is my novel, so I'm allowing myself to indulge in all the gory, excess violence and one-liners my horror-loving mind can create. Is it going to be ridiculous? Probably. Is it going to be over the top? Most likely. But it is going to be greatness and I am going to share it with you as soon as I've snapped every neck and chewed every brain.

The problem is that I don't have title thus far, and if you've been reading along then you know how much trouble I have with choosing titles. I took a tip from The Guide and wrote down a list of my favorite western movie titles, and then since I only had like 3 on my list I googled "Best Western Movie Titles." I know, I'm shameless.

In so doing I found that my second favorite western title is True Grit.


My favorite title is Duck, You Sucker.


Thanks for reading! =)

Stating the Obvious

Let me state the obvious for a second here. Everyone loves a 3-day weekend. The extra time to sleep, the extra time to drink, the extra time to shop and put off more of those projects you've got piling up. A 3-day weekend is like finding a dollar in your pocket. You had it coming the whole time but now that you found it, hey! Things are a little brighter.

However, the first day back after a 3-day weekend is horrid. Like going for your first colonoscopy horrid. Especially when you're starting back to work on a Tuesday after a Monday off. I know this from experience.

For example, my Tuesday back to work after Labor Day weekend was ridiculous. How so? Well, I woke up late, only had one pair of jeans that did not have a hole in the crotchal region, had a flat tire, forgot my snack for the day, had this conversation: "I need our FEIN." "Who's FEIN? Our FEIN? Missed you at the wedding!", walked through a large group of software developers in a narrow hall twice, received an e-mail from my mother every 5 minutes asking whether I had ordered her concert tickets yet, listened to my friend ask her 3 year old if she knew what a nervous breakdown was, got slapped in the face by a dog's tail and had to go to Wal-Mart.

Add to that my already heightened state of anxiety and I was at the end of my ever-loving rope by nightfall.

I need a vacation.

Luckily, I am going on vacation to Our Nation's Capitol this weekend and won't be back until next week. That means no new post this Sunday, but I'll probably have something to say or the 14th or 15th provided I am not swept away in a Secret Service raid or a hurricaine.

As always...thanks for reading! =)

Yeah, Toast!

Sometimes I volunteer to do things when I am in a compromised state of sobriety that I would ordinarily not offer myself up for. And sometimes in those situations I end up writing a toast for a dear friend's wedding. This is one of those situations.

Two of my very best friends are getting married to each other at the end of the year. We have all been friends for a long time and we all knew that this day would come because these two people are perfect for each other. Seriously. So of course I've been super excited and looking forward to the wedding because this will be the first wedding I will attend where I personally know the bride and groom and where there will be an open bar.

The last time I saw these friends we had a bit of a party on my patio and apparently I announced before God and all creation, "I am writing a toast for your wedding! Deal with it."

Here's the thing.

I have never written a toast before. I have never even given a toast before. And I have never been around so many Catholics before!

Actually I did come up with a toast once, a silly little thing. It goes like this:

"We are all on a ship. And that ship...is a friendship."

Salute!


Not quite a wedding toast.

I know I'll drum up something good ( I better be able to, if I want to consider myself a writer) so I'm not too worried about content. I'm more concerned about the technical things. How long should a toast be? Where should I pause for dramatic effect? Do I really have to tap my knife against my glass to get everyone's attention? Should I lead everyone in an impromptu singing of "Amazing Grace"?

If anyone has any advice or recommendations on how to write an exceptional toast, do please let me know!

Thanks for reading! =)

Muse

"If only I'd had an enemy greater than my apathy I would have won." - Mumford and Sons

It's no secret that the biggest roadblock standing in the way of my Path to Publication is myself. My own personal fears and doubts are like a 50 foot brick wall with razor wire at the top, covered in insulting graffiti. It's tough. And all these fears and doubts create a stunning lack of motivation.

So what do I do?

The only thing I can do is search for inspiration. Inspiration is the antidote for apathy.

I think everyone - not only writers - gets done in by boredom and jadedness in their job or life, and needs a little pick-me-up to get going again. That's why corporations cover their walls in stupid posters of people helping each other up a cliff. Motivational posters are great for rolling your eyes at, but I find it's quite beneficial to know what kinds of things inspire you and to surround yourself with them.

Here's what inspires me:

Music - specifically finding new music I become obsessed with
Great horror movies
Mood lighting
Solitary walks at night
Old wooden ships
Skulls
Tribal masks
Books
Antiques
Guitars
Stormy weather
Animals
Success stories

If I could wrap myself and my laptop in a cocoon of all those things I would feel unstoppable - like that second train movie Denzel did. I try to keep these kinds of things in my life to keep me going. It's amazing how quickly after seeing Fright Night and discovering a new band called I Am Dynamite the ideas came bubbling up into consciousness from who-knows-where. I feel elated. I feel like a badass.

So, what inspires you?

Back In the Saddle Again

I'm back!

It's been a busy few weeks, my dear reader. Between going to L.A. and having guests and dog sitting and concert going and taking an hour and half to get to a Home Goods that's only 15 minutes away, I haven't had time to post. But I'm back in the saddle.

My trip to Los Angeles was perfection. I had great time seeing my old London buddies and even greater time seeing famous people. They really are everywhere in Hollywood.

Right after my plane touched down at Bob Hope airport we went to a taping of Chelsea Lately where Lisa Kudrow was the guest. She still looks just like Phoebe. On another day we ate dinner at the fancy restaurant at Chateau Marmont - the hotel where Lady Gaga stays. "If it's good enough for Gaga, it's good enough for us!" I said. After accidently valet parking ourselves we did our very best to not come off as poor kids and keep our eyes from bulging out at the menu prices. And then we saw her. Eating at a table for two halfway across the restaurant was Olivia Wilde. (Thirteen from House and the girl from Tron and Cowboys and Aliens)

Let me just say that she is really, really, really, really beautiful in person. And skinny as a rail. And she smokes and talks with her hands and her laugh sounds like music.

Since we were all dolled up, my friends and I decided to go back to the apartment and get some pictures taken together. My host's friend Patrick had met us for dinner and was coming back to the apartment with us to hang out. On our way back, my host rolled down her window and motioned for Patrick to do the same.

"Hey! Do you mind taking pictures of us when we get back?"

"What, like naked?"

"No!......Maybe later."

(*No naked pictures were taken. Don't worry, family members.)

Later that week we went to a taping of The Soup and got pictures taken with Joel McHale, and we saw Ugly Betty at a coffee shop and on the last day we saw Jane Lynch in Barnes and Noble's. She said hi to us. Because we're cool like that.

Anywho, in the world of writing I'm still revising my novel and I'm also working on a short story for a writing contest. I've let myself be intimidated by the Query Letter for too long and it's time to knock it out. My deadline is to have sent queries to at least 5 literary agents by the end of October. It's time to nut up or shut up.

Thanks for reading! =)