always write...

I'm not #amwriting but I can make a mean cupcake...

2011-08-22T17:44:00.001-07:00

ACTUALLY, I happen to think my spur-of-the-moment, procrastinator-friendly, multicolor cupcakes are quite friendly-looking and not mean at all.

But I digress...

We'll make this post about goals. Achieving and not achieving them.

My goal in life is to become a published author and write till I die. True Vonnegutess style, if you will. I refuse to give up if it takes me a hundred failed manuscripts.

UNCOMMONLY COMMON isn't a fail though. I've had seven rejections from about ten queries. Tomorrow I'm going to send out my shiny new query to a couple agents to see if maybe I was not explaining the awesomeness that is my poor Casper Common's story.

To ease rejection, I've been working on a new manuscript, THE WOODS. It's easier and harder at the same time. I keep trying to think it out, but it's not like when I would think of UNCOMMONLY COMMON. I always said it felt like I was watching Casper through a fish bowl. Yeah, ultimately I had control (I can catch and toss a tank fish if I want to), but Casper was doing his own thing. THE WOODS I find myself procrastinating on. I actually downloaded the Scrivener trial mostly so I could start the manuscript over (from 16K already written) and try new things.

Point is... I have many goals. I now want to see THE WOODS take shape like UNCOMMONLY COMMON did in my head. I want UNCOMMONLY COMMON to get published, because it's worth it. But sometimes... sometimes my goals are simpler.

For example, I wanted to make rainbow cupcakes. Ever since I StumbleUpon-ed them a month ago.

Today, TLC's Cupcake Girls came on just as I sat down to outline THE WOODS again, this time from separate characters' POV, and I thought, why am I waiting for someone to make these cupcakes with me? Do I or do I not know how to bake a scratch recipe? (I do.) And that was that. I got up and found the cookbook.

However, unforeseen circumstances being what they are, I had to compromise. There wasn't enough sugar for a full cake. It's perfect actually because I have no one to eat these cupcakes when I'm done so it made sense to simply one-third the smallest recipe (and show my head I still know some badass math). BUT not having a lot of batter meant I couldn't separate the batter into too many bags, thus making TRUE rainbow cupcakes out of the question.

Did I give up? NOoooooooo.

I made four of my favorite colors and decided to call them Mulicolor Cupcakes instead. Then I added green to the frosting because I felt bad for not using the green coloring in the batter.

In terms of goals:

Did I achieve making Rainbow Cupcakes? No, but I learned I have the capacity and capability to make Rainbow Cupcakes. Not only can I do it, but it'll be faster and easier when I do go for the full enchilada of Raibowosity in single-serve food terms.

Same thing goes with writing. Thus, I write on.

SWEETLY by Jackson Pearce: a review

2011-08-19T19:24:00.000-07:00

I thought it was only fitting that after having gushed on my totally platonic girl-crush on Jackson Pearce in my last post that I review her book.

Should be said, I was almost sad I got my book before August 23 (the release date), thank you, Amazon, because I wanted to read it along with the masses. However, once it was in my hands I couldn't resist. I put aside THE LOOKING GLASS WARS and dove into SWEETLY.

(Personally, I hate when people summarize in a review. When I read book reviews I skim for good and bad, as I wouldn't care about the review unless I've deemed enough interest from the synopsis. If you want a synopsis of SWEETLY, click the link.)

Now, a review:

4 out of 5 stars

The Good:

The single narrator, Gretchen, was SUCH A RELIEF compared to SISTERS RED. I liked Gretchen, her voice was very much her own.

Easter eggs, I guess you would call them, in the shape of Gretchen's last name (Kassel--German hometown of the Brothers Grimm), and ocean references (as Pearce is working on a Little Mermaid retelling, FATHOMLESS, I hope all the ocean stuff had a point).

Most of all, I like how Pearce's voice is all hers. There is a reference to a flashing yellow light, which I take by her doing a video on that exact conundrum she is frustrated by now and again. The cat is named Noodles for goodness sake. Her writing makes me smile.

The less good:

I had a hard time getting into the book past the prologue. The writing was a little too descriptive and flowery. It felt like I was reading SHIVER by Maggie Stiefvater for a bit and it scared me because I never made it past page 140 of SHIVER, it was THAT boring. But alas, it only lasted a few chapters in SWEETLY. I had to go back and reread some confusing sentences but it picked up and pile-drove me through the rest of the book.

For about 200 pages in the middle I was enthralled. Is Sophia good? Is she bad? How come Ansel is so smitten? Witch, werewolf, or both?

There are a couple mysteries going on all at once, some intriguing, some decipherable from the get-go. The shells, certainly (hopefully) pulling in FATHOMLESS to companionosity--is that a word?--were not mysterious. Just...no. The, what I am going to call, "Special Sister Syndrome" piqued my interest. There's a big "why me?" or "why not me?" debate that I was demanding answers about in my head. Seriously, I HAD TO KNOW.

Swinging to the werewolf side of paranormalcy did disappoint a bit. I get it's the same SISTERS RED world, but Little Red Riding Hood was concerned with wolves, Hansel and Gretel were threatened by a witch! Werewolves are just... I'm over it. PROPS though on how Pearce pulled it off, making Gretchen MISTAKE the werewolves for a witch and just calling them such. (Like, maybe Hansel and Gretel were wrong all along.)

The Bad:

I wish the last three chapters hadn't existed. I get wanting to tie in the next novel, but "my sister loved the ocean, all twins share souls, werewolves can mate with two-souled girls" came out of NOWHERE.

And finally...

Is it just me, or:

I read a couple reviews before and while I read SWEETLY where it was mentioned there was no witch. I get that Gretchen mistook the werewolves for witches, but was Sophia not a witch? I mean, the book didn't expressly burn her at the stake but there seemed to be some bewitching (which was great!) going on. The lemon ones give courage, the girls are begging for hazelnut truffles, more "free samples" than necessary, Gretchen's "should I love her, should I hate her" debate. I'm calling witch on Sophia Kelly! Which, if this is the case, I think it added an amazing dimension to the book.

All in all, 4 out of 5 stars and I'll be waiting to read PURITY and FATHOMLESS by Pearce the moment they release.

San Francisco Dreams

2011-08-04T11:15:00.001-07:00

I have this friend, Hannah, who excites me very much. She is extremely supportive and loves life. She reads my work and tells me what she likes, hates, would change, etc.

She wants to work in publishing, she just doesn't where yet. (I strongly suggest she become an agent but that may or may be selfish of me. (Okay, it's selfish.))

Anyway, since she became a college graduate, Hannah decided to move to San Francisco. I was a little sad, naturally, that she wanted to be so far away, but how awesome is it to see someone step out in the world to boldly face their dreams?

Awesome, right?

Just yes, it's awesome.

I'm so proud of her. And a little jealous in the right ways. I got to go with her to move her in to her grandfather's house and say goodbye. I felt a little special, I'm not gonna lie.

Most importantly though, Hannah gave me back something I lost... reckless ambition. I've received five rejection letters in a row. And yes, it hurts and it's hard. But I don't want to give up.

I shamelessly stalk author Jackson Pearce on the internet. And by stalk, I mean very respectfully listen, agree, disagree, and laugh at what she does from a safe distant and mean no threat, harm or harassment in any way. She's amazing! She gets pestered a lot by the same questions but she's so supportive of people following their dreams, mostly writers. I can't help but adore her. I've stalked her to the point I've read/heard it took her two years, two manuscripts and almost 80 rejections before she found an agent. So if she didn't give up and can be that awesome, why can't I?

In her live show last night, she struck a brilliant point: Getting published is hard. It's supposed to be hard. That's what makes it worth it. If it was easy anyone could do it.

I Raise You... One Blog Per Week

2011-08-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

Nothing fancy, but yummy blog words nonetheless.

I wrote 3,000 words today, and I am proud. I also cleaned the kitchen and living room, which makes me productive to the real world too. Sweet.

Personal Goal: finish current WIP: THE WOODS by September 1. (Current word count: 12,061 Aim: 65-75K)

Is it ambitious? Yes. But that's how I roll. :)

Status of UNCOMMONLY:
Agents queried: 7
Rejections: 3

(Sent most recent three queries only a week ago. The first four about a month ago.)

Any other writers out there working away?

Is Thing ON?

2011-07-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

*Taps the mic*

*Blows the Dust*

*Coughs*

Um Hai!

I been gone a long long time. I is still a writer. I is still wanting to be published. I is trying.

Been about 15 months since I've blogged. A lot has changed. But not Casper. I actually buffed, revised, chopped, rewrote, chopped, polished, polished, and refined my manuscript in that time. I'm starting the query process.

Three rejections thus far.

I will keep trying though. I will.

And I will try to blog again... IT'S BEEN SO LONG!

Death by Carrot

2010-05-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

Death by Carrot
PART 1

The victim, Michael Downess, was found at 3:24AM. He was declared dead on arrival.

Violence has been on the rise ever since I took over for Captain Mast. There hadn’t been any murders, only assaults. Until tonight. The only pattern my unit has been able to uncover between them is that there isn’t one. Some of the victims knew each other, some not. No one can remember the assailant nor the weapon used against them.

Downess’s murder was too much. Assault I can deal with, play it off as an opportunity to stress police presence and recruit cadets. And it’d be easier if the press wasn’t slowly turning against me.

They seemed understanding at first, “New Captain Must Assuage New Assaults”, but now they’re less sympathetic: “More Attacks, Less Answers.” The first line of that story said ‘Captain Ricky has a lot of ‘splainin to do.’ It’s easy to be cute when the town isn’t crying out for your resignation.

“Captain!” Lieutenant Carroway approaches me in front of the Channel Seven news bus. “Captain, we’ve confirmed there are six stab wounds along the chest and abdomen of the victim.”

Molly Lancaster the field reporter clips on her microphone and beckons over her cameraman. “Six stab wounds!” She’s talking to Carroway, knowing I wouldn’t have let that slip without consideration. Carroway gives me an apologetic look but then nods confirmation. “A stabbing,” Molly tells the camera. “There hasn’t been a murder in Pico Ranch in almost ten years. Terrible. Terrible! Captain Richards, is there any lead on who might have committed this heinous crime? This time, I mean.” A clear edge of derision in that last bit.

I make sure to look Molly in the eye so the camera gets nothing but a shadowy profile from me. “All suspects in the case are being kept confidential for the protection of Mr. Downess’s friends and family.”

Molly is disappointed as ever but won’t show it to the camera. “Well, can you at least confirm the weapon for us?”

I look at Carroway, wondering the same thing myself. “Umm,” Carroway says. He’s nervous and unsure if he should speak. I nod my permission, reminding myself that Molly’s audience are the people we serve. “The victim’s body was taken an hour ago to the hospital for a biopsy. All we’re certain of at this point is that the weapon appears to have been conical in shape and not left behind.”

Molly nods. “Another mystery for Captain Richards to solve.”

Carroway’s walkie hisses and I lead him away. “We’ll keep you updated,” I tell Molly. We head to my cruiser.

It’s the morgue on the walkie. Dr. Hanley sounds tired. I wouldn’t normally make requests but I feel as if there are few people I can trust lately. He reads a long list of procedures they’ve conducted and ends by stating there was an unusual amount of beta-carotene and vitamin A in the stab wounds.

Carroway pulls the walkie off his belt. “The stab wounds were in the abdomen, weren’t they?” He’s as frustrated as I am. “So he ate a salad! Our precinct has been declining for months and you’re reporting on nutrition!”

“Lieutenant Carroway,” I say, taking the walkie. “I appreciate the dedication and the enthusiasm but this unit works together.” I mash the walkie button, “Doc, are the stomach and chest wounds both filled with the nutrients?”

Some static follows. “Yes, Captain. And there appears to be some slight discoloring around the edges.”

That’s all I need to hear. One of the cadets I keep for overnight bookkeeping is on a laptop in the back of a precinct SUV. I shout across the taped-off parking lot of Downess’s apartment. “Cadet! Get on the internet and tell me what sources can leave a residue of beta-carotene and vitamin A.”

Three minutes go by in which Carroway and I debate motives. Downess was a clerk at Costco, no girlfriend but fairly social. He was a likable enough guy. The worst information we have was that got a parking ticket last week. Our brainstorming ends with no solid leads by time the cadet has hustled his laptop to me.

“Captain,” he says. He flips the monitor to face me, displaying an array of vegetables.

“Lieutenant,” I start, but he’s already got the walkie in hand.

“Dr. Hanley, what color did you say the stabs were?”

A crackle. “Orange.”

Carroway looks to me, and I confirm. “Cadet, list the murder weapon. Death by carrot.”

A car passes by and the headlights illuminate my face in the cruiser. I appear stoic, my abhorrence undetectable. How am I supposed to promote nutrition at the school assemblies now? What will I tell my daughter when I used to joke that her veggies won’t kill her, if only she’d give them a chance? It hurts to think of Michael Downess being attacked this way. By a carrot. Who would do this?

This will not become an unsolved mystery. Assaults I can handle, murder I refuse to let soil my captaincy.

I will find the murderer.

I Love My Life

2010-04-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

On my way home today, I thought that my life has never been so wonderful before now. I feel so appreciated, loved, and wanted by everyone around me.

I'm truly a happy happy girl.

Thank you, God. Thank you so so much.

PG Love Scene Blogfest!!!

2010-03-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Little Princess

By: Angela Kate

'The talk' came too late.

If parents knew--if they could remember themselves--that children feel curiosity and affection, they wouldn't wait. My mom came to me on my thirteenth birthday, twenty minutes before my friends showed up for the party. She had a pamphlet in her hand and looked me dead in the eye.

"Megan, honey..." she'd said.

Three minutes passed where she stared at me, barely blinking. I knew what was coming because I'd seen the pamphlet a week before. I could tell she felt awkward, uncomfortable even, and I wanted to relieve her from it. But what would I say? 'It's okay, Mom, I know?' 'I have the internet?'

She just stared into my eyes... stared and stared until I felt like she knew. She knew my secret.

I looked at my picture of Grant, the one he'd taped to my headboard--when he'd ask if I would kiss it before I went to sleep at night. I hadn't even kissed him yet, so it felt strange to promise such a thing, but I did.

He said he wondered what it would feel like, to be kissed by me, so I kissed him. He kissed me back and said he liked it. Then he wondered what it would feel like to use his tongue. We did that too. Grant kept wondering things, kept asking how things would feel, what things looked like. Each time was just one tiny step further than the last... one measly little motion or piece of clothing more. Where was the line to be drawn?

Grant was fourteen, and he liked me. When it was over, he told me not to tell. He said we would be in trouble. I was so scared, I couldn't breathe. He kissed me again and told me it was okay... that everyone does it but nobody tells. I believed him.

Mom stared at me so hard I began to cry. Whether it was because I thought she knew or because Grant would be mad, I couldn't tell.

"Megan!" Mom cried. "Megan, honey, you're not in trouble. I just wanted to talk."

I stifled myself. She didn't know? Thank you, God, thank you!

Mom stared at me funny, probably at my abrupt mood change, and put her arm around me. "Honey, you're such a big girl now, I just want you to read this, okay?" She laid the pamphlet beside me on the bed. "Your friends will be here soon, okay? Don't be upset, I'm sorry I scared you. I love you, honey, happy birthday. Okay?"

I wiped my eyes and breathed out in relief. She didn't know... Grant wouldn't be angry. I looked down at my ugly pink dress, the one I had to wear because my jeans didn't fit. I'd gotten a tear on it, but it would dry. I heard the doorbell ring and hoped it was Grant.

"You look fat," he'd told me when I came downstairs, and it made me cry. "Jeez," he said, "lighten up! I was kidding, Megan, you're pretty. You know I think you're pretty. You're a princess, Megan... my princess."

A year later, that's what he tells Morgan every day when he gets home from basketball but before he leaves for work: "You're a princess, Morgan... my princess. Just like your mommy."

PG Blogfest

2010-03-15T07:10:00.000-07:00

I'm at work... my PG love scene will be up later. Come back!

As I Wait in Line (A Short Story)

2010-02-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

As I Wait in Line

This boy holds a candy bar.

If you can say the word, you can have it, his mother says.

The boy looks to me, his face contorted by injustice. He brings the prize close and tries: Slicks. Sleakers. Sleams. He stops, eyes pleading with me--afraid he looks dumb.

I do not cheat, but smile.

What is the second letter? I ask.

N.

What sound does it make?

"In."

Okay, put it behind the S.

All his might and concentration accompany the second attempt: Ssss. Ssnnn. Sssnnnniiii. Snickers? Eyes back for approval.

Exactly. Good job. That's right.

His mother laughs, watching him admire the trophy.

He beams. I want to see if they have M&M's.

WMP: White Male Protangonist

2010-02-18T10:57:00.000-08:00

How many books have you read with a white male protagonist? Heck--how many books have you read with a white female protagonist?

Lots.

Off the top of my head, the only book I read last year with a main character that was NOT white was Betwixt by Tara Bray Smith.

Umm, the book was aight. I thought she reached a little far--it had lots of POVs and the weird names were for the sake of ONE scene--but I was impressed that a lot of the characters weren't white.

But then I saw Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief
last night. And, again, I was impressed at the ethnic diversity represented. Then, screeching halt. My sister informs that in the book Grover is white--not black like the movie depicts--and it saddened me.

Check out the fan art for The Lightning Thief, the book. I have yet to read it, and I will after I finish Fire, but these kids look white to me.

Every one of them....

Harry Potter did well. The main trio was white but I remember some ethnic representations (mostly expressed by their name) without much thought:

Padma and Parvati Patil

Cho Chang

Dean Thomas

Lavender Brown

I know Lavender ended up white in the Half-Blood movie, but I imagined her as black the book and she WAS portrayed as such in the films (by Jennifer Smith) until Goblet of Fire.

And, you know, my main character is a white male. In fact, he looks a lot like Sterling Knight when he was all cute and pathetic in 17 Again. (In my mind, of course.)

Yep, his best friend is white too. The love interest as well. The twins are Italian! Does that count? Probably not, as I'm considering French to be white as well. Ughhh. Do you know, I can only think of only TWO black characters in the entire manuscript? One of them is also gay. In my head. There is no MENTION of said "black gay guy" being black or gay. It's not relevant to the plot. It may never come up. There is a Korean girl--just one.

And see--although I am guilty of the same, I think it's a shame. I think having a genre for "ethnic novels" is pitiful. It shouldn't be done with the INTENT to reach the Black/Asian/Native American/African/Indian/Inuit/Hispanic/Alien market. It should just be done.

White people aren't the only ones with stories to tell.

The Best Laugh TV Ever Gave Me

2010-02-11T20:31:00.000-08:00

I swear, the line about muffins in the mail has made me laugh harder than anything in the world. Brilliant, clever, well-delivered.

Enjoy. :)

Netbook WIN

2010-02-09T07:46:00.000-08:00

You won't believe this--you shouldn't believe this--but I am ENJOYING editing. No, really.

It's partly because I'm in a pivotal scene with my MC. Blood, joy, whispers, and basketball--love it. It's partly because I set aside the MS this weekend and I rarely break for more than one day at a time. I had time to miss it. It's partly because I got through 9 (my average is like 3) pages and cut another 1K yesterday. But mostly it's because I bought a netbook on Sunday and the MS is now mobile.

Yes, I have a laptop--it's a dinosaur. It rarely connects to anything but my home wireless, makes a loud noise as it runs, and takes forever to do everything as I got it in 2005. I've been working on a desktop, shiny new and awesome, but I had to be cloistered to work.

Basically, NETBOOK WIN.

All I wanted was a word processor plus Internet--perfect match. It's light, the battery lasts forever, and I've been working nonstop.

NETBOOK WIN.

Tagged, and STILL Editing

2010-02-05T09:21:00.001-08:00

The lovely Mireyah of Crimson Ink tagged me. Now I get to answer questions, yay!

Your Cell Phone? Square

Your Hair? Damp

Your Mother? Late

Your Father? Gamer

Your Favorite Food? Chocolate

Your Dream Last Night? Inconvenient

Your Favorite Drink? Coffee

Your Dream/Goal? Family

What Room Are You In? Bedroom

Your Hobby? Adventuring

Your Fear? Loneliness

Where Do You See Yourself In Six Years? Published

Where Were You Last Night? Here

Something That You Aren't? Memorable

Wish List Item? Boyfriend

Where Did You Grow Up? SA-town

Last Thing You Did? Eat

What Are You Wearing? Pants

Your TV? Off

On Your Pets? Leaves

Your Life? Uncomplainable

Your Mood? Lethargic

Missing Someone? Always

Vehicle? Seat-heated

Something You Aren't Wearing? Socks

Your Favorite Store? Borders

Your Favorite Color? Purple

When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Shower

Last Time You Cried? Monday

Your Best Friend? "Cupcake"

One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Borders

Facebook? Disappointing

Favorite Place To Eat? Ehh

See? Unlike some people--you know who you are--I can oblige the one word answers. :-P

To quote one my characters (which is really quoting myself, come to think of it): "Play by the rules, guys. Seatbelts save lives." See how moralistic my gypsy is?

In Other, Non-taggable, News:

I'm still playing the editing game. It's epic, I tell you. I BROKE UNDER 100K YESTERDAY! (Big deal, as I started editing the draft at 128K, which is WAY too many words.) *Pat on the back*

What big goal did YOU accomplish this week?

M.I.A.

2010-01-29T09:27:00.000-08:00

Did you know Missing in Action was a Chuck Norris film? Awesome.

I am not missing, I did not give up blogging, I HAVE been neglecting a lot of the blogosphere lately but that happens sometimes.

Pretty much, a lot of things came up at once. Things of this nature:

Friends coming back from Christmas with their families
Dog/House sitting
Sister's surgery
Manuscript edits being extra frustrating
Having to watch all of The Tudors season 3 in 4 days (okay, that one was optional)
Visiting my older cousins
Work, of course
Planning the camping/hiking trip
Failing to read The Book of Lost Things
Simon/Carol's flash fiction Cosmic Coincidence contest entry (In which you still have time to partake.)
Critiquing outlines for others
Making excuses

Okay, see? Lots of stuff.

Anyway...

I'm back now, hopefully to normal. I will be resuming my trolling of all your blogs as of today. Yay!

Officially half-way through editing Uncommonly Common. (Yay! *Happy Dance*)

On a unrelated note:
Did you know Chuck Norris' tears can cure cancer? It's too bad he'll never cry.

Any other Norrisisms would be welcome.

Reading Two Books that Aren't Books

2010-01-12T18:40:00.000-08:00

If you look over into my Currently Reading category you'll notice I am working my way through Look at the Birdie by Kurt Vonnegut.

If you look immediately left of this you'll see the cover art to No one belongs here more than you, by Miranda July. I am also reading this book.

I have never read two books at one time. This amazes me.

They both happen to be short story compilations, which amazes me further.

I am OBSESSED with short stories lately. I even wrote one while at work yesterday... which is odd. I'm not sure why, but I find myself thinking of short stories and tag lines for them constantly now. It's in my head and it's discouraging my working on the MS.

I am tearing through July's book, mostly because the stories are so shocking/obscene/crazy that I can't wait to be amazed further. They aren't exactly MY cup of tea, but I'm not quitting them so it has to be worth something.

For Vonnegut, I'm trying NOT to run through it. It's the last we'll ever get of him, and I don't want to rush the experience. I want to enjoy it, and OH, I ammmmmmmmmmmm. I have three left to read so you should be getting a vlog about it sometime soon. If you thought I dorked out for Nowhere Feels Like Home by LK Gardner-Griffie just wait till you see how nerd-fabulous I'll be talking about FUBAR and Song for Selma.

So that's what I'm up to in between the deep editing waters of the river Styx. What's everyone else reading?

Ten Little Factoids

2010-01-08T19:31:00.001-08:00

Haaave you met Simon? As far as Internet personalities goes, he's the most gentlemanly blogger I know. (I keep meaning to make that award for him too. Someday, Simon, keep waiting.) Any way, he handed over the Honest Scrap award to me the other day on his blog (which you should visit) because I'm awesome, and I rather like it. Thank you, Simon.

I think I'm supposed to give up ten honest factoids about myself in lieu of an acceptance speech, but you got both. You are SO lucky.

Ready go.

1. I have moved 12 times in the last 5 years. I plan to move to Colorado next. I've wanted to live there since I was 5 years old and I don't exactly have any solid reasons to stay put.

2. I can say the alphabet backwards. I can sing it backwards too. I tell many people this and no one ever seems to think it's impressive. Huh.

3. Despite being all self-deprecating and critical, I really am a hopeful at heart. I've been listening to I Just Haven't Met You Yet by Michael Buble a lot lately.

4. I feel like I'm boring you to death with these facts.

5. I cringe at the sound of a British accent. I'm sorry to all the lovely and nice British people of the world, but I hate your accent. The first and only Brit I ever knew was just too awful to me and I can't stand hearing you speak. I really am sorry.

6. On that note, I adore throatier accents (e.g. Russian, German, Italian, French, Greek...). See, again, based on people. The first Russian, Italian, and French people I knew are still a part of some of my best memories.

7. I happen to think Henry Cavill is supermegafoxyawesomehot. And that's big, coming from me.

Go ahead and take a moment, the facts aren't getting any more interesting... *Swoon*
8. If you watched the Michael Buble video, I find his seductive face funny. He's a great-looking guy on his own, but something about his trying to be sexy, I don't know. It's more adorable than "come hither".
9. My sister gave me a Harry Potter wand for Christmas. If that wasn't awesome enough, IT CONTROLS THE TELEVISION. That's right, quite literally with the flick of my wand I can control whatever function of the television I like. I love the big swoosh I programmed for mute. :-X
http://www.iwantoneofthose.com/gadgets-gizmos/the-wand-remote-control/index.html
10. I suck at HTML. I hate coding, colors and all that. I'm a minimal blogger.

And to pass it on?

I'm going cheap on this, but will attempt to talk my way out of it.

I'M PASSING THIS AWARD TO THE FIRST THREE COMMENTERS. (Unless you've had it in the last two months.) GO GET IT, FIGHT FOR YOUR PIECE OF HONEST SCRAP.

My reasoning (other than just feeling too lazy to click around) is that the main point of these awards is for our friends in the same blog circles to meet and learn about one another. If someone has taken the time to read my blog, humble as it is, and comment, they're someone worth navigating to find out about. And like, the link is already there...

You know, because they add you and you add them, and you read about each other and comment, and Earth smiles because there is peace and harmony. Do it for Earth, ya'll.

Page Fright

2010-01-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

Why I am a Writer. And will Always Write...

It took my welcoming part of my #twitterfamily, Denise Swank, to the writer's side of the blogosphere just now to realize that I never properly introduced myself. So here it is, my belated "Why I Am a Writer" post.

(Can you hear the trumpet blasts?)

Okay, me. I am fortunate to have a mother who blazes through books. I mean, she's the type of person that has to spend an hour reading the first two chapters of a book while standing in the book store just to remember if she's read it or not. Yeah, she blazes--and amazes. (I defy anyone to meet my mommy and say the publishing business is in trouble. Psshaw, I say. Psshaw.)

That's us at my college graduation. Yeah, I'm squinting and have post-grad-cap hair, but that's not the point. Isn't my mommy cute?

She was really proud of me then. I have over 50 cousins in my generation, I'm somewhere in the middle, and I was the very first (if we exclude step cousins--who shouldn't be excluded because I love them but will be excluded to make my claim more impressive) to graduate college. Yay.

But I have business degree. Boo.

In the words of my friend, SSCN (super secret code name) Tivoli, "WHY DID YOU GET A BUSINESS DEGREE!?"

Tivoli is right. We used to be BFFs in the middle years of high school. We had a notebook that we wrote a story together in. We had rules too: only three pages per person per swap. It was epic.

You see? I've wanted to write books since maybe fourteen. I was meant to be a writer, not a businessperson. (I can't tell you how scathingly jealous I was that Amelia Atwater-Rhodes published her first book at thirteen. Like, major jealous. And she was pretty to boot, dag-nabit.) And so I used to try to write books too.

Inspired by Ms. Atwater-Rhodes, and a million vampire stories long before they sparkled, I created my own vampires. One swam in my head for ages. I began writing it too. I still have it, it's messy and omniscient third person, but I still like it--not love it--all these years later. I know exactly what I was trying to say with it and who my characters were.

And Tivoli, of course, I wrote with on the side. We wrote the funniest things in those journals--mostly making fun of people less-pleasing to us. It was great fun.

So why did I get a business degree instead of English degree? Why did I postpone my own dreams so long? Because I got scared. And my ego got bruised. And I had succumbed to page fright.

This girl, not even deserving of a SSCN, broke my heart in high school.

She was in my English class (ironic, no?) and had once had the niceness to say she liked my ambience. With a compliment like that, who wouldn't start taking a person's words to heart? So we had to research desired careers in English at the end of the year. I chose the writer's life, naturally, and let me tell you--IT WAS HARD WORK. Have you tried researching it? It's nearly impossible, the experience is so different for everyone, but I did it. And after turning it in, not-deserving-of-a-SSCN girl asked me why I would want to write books.

"UM, BECAUSE WRITING, WRITERS, BOOKS, AND LITERATURE ARE AWESOME!?"

Oh, how I wish I would have said that, that I would of shut her up with the confidence that would only come to me years later... but I didn't. I said something along the lines of "because it's fun to me and I want something with my name on it to be around when I die. I want something to prove I was here." And then her answer broke my young ambitious writer-y heart.

"Don't you think that's kind of shallow?"

Shallow? Shallow. SHALLOW!! This girl wore Spice Girl hooker boots and black leather clothing to class every day and she had the gall to comment on my ambitions? Current me loathes persons like her, and current me wishes I could go hug former me and tell not-deserving-of-a-SSCN girl to bug off, that I'm smart and talented and the only things in life worth chasing are what makes your heart soar. But, like I said, my bravado was weak, my confidence shaken, and my heart broken.

I told no one, and I let my vampires fade out of existence.

I went off to college, thinking my math skills would do me well in a numbers world. I joined Accounting--sucked at it. Try Economics--good at it, but little future. Then landed with Management--because it was easy.

I still read plenty. I tore through many classics and fell in deep unbreakable love with Kurt Vonnegut through Slaughter-House Five. My critiques in college always came with the same praise: The writing is excellent... blah blah blah. It was a chip on my shoulder every time. (I rewrote for EVERYONE in college, mostly to save myself.) And then one day, in my last semester I got a call from my sister, SSCN Judy. She said, "Let's write a book."

Just like that.

Oh, I thought, I've always wanted to write a book. So we began.

My current MS is one she helped me create. Judy gets honorable mention for helping the process, but she dropped out after about a month. Not everyone is cut out to sit down and willingly feel the need pull out their own hair.

But I am.

Lucky my hair was pulled back that day, huh?

So now, I write. I will always write... no matter what. Success or no success. Even if I sit on top of thousands of pages of tens of books and short stories that only I am willing to read, I will carry on. Because I love it, it's who I am, and I don't care if you think I'm shallow for it. My professors had faith in me, now I do too.

(edit: header picture source.)

Did you have any defining moments of self-declaration?

The Story of My Life (The Wedding)

2010-01-02T07:54:00.000-08:00

"That's smooth, Ace. Real smooth," I told him.

I was an ace myself, at playing it cool.

I'd noticed the guy four hours ago at the ceremony. I'd given him ten arbitrary points for wearing Italian leather loafers and having enough sense to match black socks with black shoes. He'd won the preliminary round long before he ever pulled the chair up beside me.

But I showed no signs of it, I played it completely cool.

I was far too busy dealing with the national crisis at hand and advising the world's most powerful people via text message to take notice of something so mundane as a six-foot-nothing man with perfect dimples straddling the chair just to my left. At least he should think so. He would think I'm always on the go, too busy to bother with men; that's why the only girl here with perfect hair and a personality to match was still single. Maybe he could show me what I'd been missing. He could change me.

That's what my coolness was telling him.

In reality, I'd just finished texting my friend a line from one of our many inside jokes together when he finally came over. He pulled up the chair and faced me dead on. I tilted my phone so he would only see a glare. My business was not only dire, it was private. He grunted for acknowledgement, and I pushed send.

He swiveled the chair just slightly to make himself more comfortable. I deftly flicked shut the lid of my phone and crossed my legs in his opposite direction. I gave him the briefest of glances and the politest of smiles. I turned my attention to the band.

He was easily frustrated by this, just as I'd planned he should be. I wasn't so easily swayed. My cell lit up quickly, but it didn't make a sound. A person like me was too important to need a belligerent little noise to tell me someone needed me. Someone always needed me. He should think so at least. I'd silenced it right before the reception.

It was my friend again, replying in turn with the other half of our joke. I groaned so Mr. Loafers would know just how important the crisis I was solving was before texting back. I told her something was finally coming of my cousin's wedding in the form of biceps and well-fitting slacks. She knew not to respond.

I made sure a good amount of leg was showing before the band let the groom sing a slow jazz number. It was embarrassingly cliché for the amateur musician to dedicate a song to his bride, but it was his day. At my wedding there would be none of that. I played it cool though, didn't show my disgust, and Mr. Loafers began to snap in time to the tune.

That's when I delivered my brilliant line. I felt like a flapper from an old black and white movie; elegant, sexy, and only slightly inebriated. He laughed once, and gave me a well-rehearsed half-smile.

I returned the sentiment with my wryest grin. I wasn't that easy.

"The groom's best friend," he introduced himself. It was an excuse to lean in and look down my dress. As if I didn't know he was part of the bridal party.

I sat up straighter without pulling away. "The bride's cousin," I told the side of his face. He leaned back and smiled.

He snapped to the music as my foot swayed. It was one of those no-communication bonding moments. He moved even closer at the end of the song. The last slow snap led his hand running up the side of my knee.

I gave him a genuine smile during the groom's applause. He looked grateful for it.

The groom took a moment to announce they would do the garter toss. I waited for the best friend to leave my side. When he didn't, I knew I had won. It was time to play the role of supportive perfection.

"I won't disappear," I assured him. "Don't you want to join the toss?"

He laughed appreciatively and slid a few fingers under the hem of my dress. "I don't think that would be a good idea," he said. "My wife might not like it."

I played it cool. I was an ace at playing it cool.

The scruffy one with long hair caught the garter. The screams in the room matched the ones in my head. My lovely cousin then gave me the excuse I needed. I brushed the hand from my leg and went to join the other lonely women in the room. Mr. Loafers seemed confident of my previous assurance to him.

He obviously didn't know how important I was.

My cousin was stunning in sequins. It made my eyes water to hear her whisper that the flowers were meant for my hands. I laughed off the confidence.

A fourteen year-old stood beside me in the huddle. I was dead center and the bride threw short. One step forward and not even a struggle. The photographer took every advantage of the moment and I felt like a star. I looked back once to Mr. Loafers and the empty chair beside him. I went to the bar instead.

The bartender was young and cute. He had the barely visible stubble on the sides of his face that makes me swoon. I sat down, playing every part the girl who couldn't find love.

He noticed exactly what I'd wanted him to. "You caught the bouquet," he said. "You're next." He smiled and slid a drink down the bar toward me. It was just like it happened in the movies.

"That's smooth, Ace. Real smooth," I told him.

Do You Want to Hear a Story?

2010-01-01T19:30:00.000-08:00

It has nothing to do with an apple.

So, a while ago I started dabbling in short stories. I have four so far. I know everyone absolutely ADORED the epic tale of The Apple on My Desk, but I have another story to share.

It started with this random line I told someone and I wanted it to be in a story. It absolutely wouldn't fit in Uncommonly Common or any of my series, so I tried it out on it's own. And I created a girl whom I love. So much so I'm intent to give her a short story life of her own.

Soooo... depending on whether any of you lovely beautiful wonderful spectacular people who actually take the time to read my blog actually like it, I might be intent on challenging myself to a once-a-month short story sharing. You know, because I don't do much else with this blog. :)

So tomorrow I shall post it. Don't worry, Simon, you gentlemanly king of short stories, it won't take up three posts. Just one. (It's under 1,000 words).

Oh, and this might just be my comeuppance for daring to challenge myself on Twitter. Ms. Mireyah Wolfe wanted me to Vlog out my most embarrassing moment and I bartered for sharing a short story instead.

So stayed tuned for yet another of my scathingly awesome short stories. :)

OH, PS to everyone who commented on my very first Vlog experience. Thank you for the unanimity of my "cuteness". I feel like Nermal from Garfield.

Never you mind that Nermal is a boy. :P You people make me happy. I have resolved to review everything I read this year so here's to getting better with each go 'round.

(picture source)
(Nermal source)

Nowhere Feels Like Home by LK Gardner-Griffie

2009-12-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

First Vlog Ever. Stand by for uncomfortable laughter.

Don't you love it by the awesomely awkward still alone? Thanks, youtube.

Two things about my vlog experience.

1. How come no one has ever told me I have a lisp or that my mouth looks like I'm stroking when I talk?

2. I get it why people assume I must be 18 all the time now.

This Might Distract You

2009-12-29T14:44:00.000-08:00

OH, look... PICTURES! Nevermind I haven't done anything productive.

The purpose of this post is to do nothing but distract you while I figure out some way to do a book review for Nowhere Feels Like Home by L.K. Gardner-Griffie. I can't decide if I should attempt a Vlog or Blog it out.
This book:

I was lucky enough to win an ARC but you should go order it now so you can read it too. Or wait for my review then buy it. Your choice. :)

OH, look. Pictures!

Don't we look like the most lovingest family ever?

Yep. The very most lovingest.

Hey, did I mention I was related to Kermit? We both try to live on the green side. He was at my Christmas too.

I should have paid more attention when they asked me to do a book review in school. Hmm.

BUT BEFORE YOU GO. Did you hear about all the free books about to be given away at Book Dreaming? Lots of books, two categories. It ends January 3rd, so hurry. Go now! NOW!

(Header source)

Christmastime

2009-12-23T13:42:00.000-08:00

I Can Relate Any Topic to Writing. At least I can try to.

Since I am just not feeling very Christmas-y this year I thought maybe I could do a Christmas-related post to bump up my spirit. I had intended to do a post on another writing genius I admire but I didn't feel right about skipping the topic of Christmas completely. I do adore Christmas, despite not feeling its warm and fuzziness. (And plus, now I get to save that certain fellow for another post at another time. Yay, less work later.)

CHRISTMASTIME

Isn't that a cool word? It's two words and one word. This fascinates me. Other words that fascinate me include: onetime, albeit, perfunctory, anecdotal, and copious. And after saying that, the only of those words to appear in the manuscript is "albeit". I always think of it as all-be-it, like three words in one. It's extra special, and it pops up twice. (Yes, I performed a word find. Sue me.)

And speaking of Uncommonly Common, I've just spent a good half an hour reading over how Christmas Eve went for Casper. I'm pleased with it.

I know it's risky business posting pieces of an unpublished/unedited/unanything manuscript. I know. But it's Christmas, the time for sharing! And it's my work and I don't have an agent (yet!) to swat my hand. I did omit four words of it (from the brackets) just in case anyone anywhere might ever read my book and not want a spoiler phrase.

And so I gift to my beautiful, amazing, supportive followers, an excerpt from Chapter Seventeen of Uncommonly Common:

The house was breathtaking. Christmas bulbs glittered from every available border. Red, green, and white ropes of light intertwined everywhere. Someone had added red candles to the windows inside. It was comforting.

Casper forgot momentarily about trying to escape going to the hospital. He forgot about school and Charlie and the gash on his face. He forgot about everything except the beauty of the world. He'd never thought it would happen again, not after losing [so much], but here it was. It was unbelievable, Richard had done it.

“Joy," breathed Persephone.

She took the word directly from Casper's mind. There was a feeling of joy in The Common Manor after so much sorrow. The idea that a holiday would ever hold a happy moment again was entirely at odds with the rest of their year. Persephone thanked Richard again and again as the three of them shivered in the cold and reveled at the art.

Merry Christmas everyone. :)

And I know it's silly but this happens to be my favorite Christmas song. Yes, sung by Barenaked Ladies.

(Picture Source)

Quality vs Quantity

2009-12-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

LK Gardner-Griffie warned me this moment would happen.

AHHHHHHHH. Ahhhhlaksjfdl;ihaspofij;fljs. My manuscript is driving me batty. Crazy. Cuckoo. Nutso. Loco. Insane in the membrane. Nutty. Bonkers. Berserk. Potato. (Okay, maybe not potato.)

Whew, okay. I had to get that out there. I'm all right, but this editing process is some tough stuff. Full sentences are being stripped from my manuscript, which is good but frustrating.

"If I take out this line that sounds long-winded will the idea still come across?"

*Rereads obsessively sixteen times*

"Yes, I think so. Okay, next paragraph."

*Repeat*

Every chapter is either quantity of info or quality of work. I'm learning to mesh as I go.

I love love love my manuscript, don't get me wrong. It still needs it's fair share of work, but it's the book I've always wanted to read. And there is simply too much of it in some places. I have a tendency to drill certain facts over and over again. (We get it, okay!? Barrett was strong, really really strong... move on already!) Thus, editing is taking forever because I can't move on if I'm not pleased.

Yes, I'm a quality control freak. Any line that doesn't read right gets an overhaul. The MC (Casper from here on) and I have been stuck in this scene for THREE DAYS. Poor Casper can't get anything done because I keep overusing words like "responded", "replied", and "reasoned". Truth be told, I think I am terrified of using the word "said".

**Note to Self: Hey Self, sometimes people just say things, and you can say they "said" them. It's okay.**

So I'm a quality writer. I find it impossible just to make ground for the sake of making ground. Only once during the seven months it took me to write the first draft did I write for quantity. It was a scene that came to me with a lot of important lines and I thought that if I didn't write the words out immediately, I might lose them. I was terrified and wrote like a banshee, but that's not my norm.

Normally, I'm a note taker. If I come up with a line or need an outline or notes on a character I just write it down and stick it in my purple portfolio folder. It's how I work.

In the battle of quality vs quantity, they're equal. I'm learning this. It's got to be good and it has to fit the appropriate word count.

**Remember: I am the rule, not the exception.**

Like the tortoise, slow and steady wins the (published?) race. Now I must go and continue to chomp out 13K.

BUT I WANT TO KNOW: Which do you focus on when writing something out: quality of work or quantity of words? How do you broach your own writing?

(header source)

One Lovely (Albeit Neglected) Blog

2009-12-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

You guys make me feel special.

The completely lovely themselves, Victoria S. and Shannon O'Donnell have bestowed upon me the One Lovely Blog Award. Thank you both very very much, awards make my heart smile.

And now to pass it on to a very special blogger...

WAIT WAIT WAIT. Before you accuse me of cheating by passing this on to only one blog (when I'm allowed up to 15) I have a good reason.

I did consider that I could do 15 blogs and have 15 followers whom all I adore. I did. But then I realized there might be something better (and less on the nose) I could do. The person getting the award from me has just (as of last night) COMPLETED HER SECOND MANUSCRIPT and RETURNED TO THE BLOGGING WORLD. I think she deserves a little one and only treatment. And really, what lovelier blog is there than one filled with congratulations, elations, joy, and a writer returned to it? Exactly.

And so with no further ado:

Carolina Valdez Miller from Carol's Prints, this award is yours now. Treat it with the loveliness it deserves. And I'd also like to bestow again a heap of congratulations for finishing. You rock, and you have One Lovely Blog.

Three Wise Men (Not the Ones You're Thinking of)

2009-12-13T11:27:00.000-08:00

Because one vote makes it unanimous.

WHAT MOTIVATES?

It's Christmastime. And it always amazes me how Christmas, when people spend ample time and money thinking of others, can be followed in less than a week by New Years, when people turn inward to reflect. It's inspiring. I love passionate people, I like to see fires burn and motivations take flight. I'm saddened at February when it ceases. Hearts should be lit asunder with the Christmas blaze all year. People should be nice, and giving, and fight for themselves every single day. Motivation should not be untimely.

I'm lucky. I'm competitive and completely willing to look like a fool in the pursuit of my passions. I like to be healthy, smart, and funny. I credit the three wise men. My personal sources of motivation. All of them writers, they are the men I aspire toward. They each bring something: gold, commincense, and myrth.

Tim Sandlin:
The Wise Man Bringing Gold

Tim Sandlin is the only of these wise man still alive, though you'd never know it from his blog. His novels are not wholly my style but I read them for the quotable gems so often found squashed between sex in a chapter. His words are gold. They stick in my head and plant a chip on my shoulder. I often say Tim Sandlin saved my life, since two years ago I lost weight to prove him wrong. Why? A line from Sorrow Floats got to me:

"There's no one more depressed than a fat person who loses one hundred pounds and discovers the thin can be lonely too."

It should be counterproductive, I know. But it was so well crafted and the words felt like a poem, so I tried to prove him wrong. He was right, (though I didn't have one hundred to lose) and I've never been more thankful to be wrong. Tim Sandlin is pure gold. Oh, more of his gems? Sure.

"Life is lovely, Maurey. Don't forget." Sorrow Floats

Did you read my about me? I love life. Sandlin is right. And I don't have the exact quotes, and I won't botch his work, but because of him I can't chew gum in front of a man and I feel dispensable when those I barely know try to hold my hand. Thanks to Skipped Parts and Rowdy in Paris, respectively.

Ralph Waldo Emerson:
The Wise Man Bringing Comminscense

Ralph and Tim go hand in hand. If Tim can cause depression, Ralph can heal it. He was a little before my time but it's okay because he was ahead of his own. It makes him relatable.

The man is my favorite quote source. I'm willing to give him enough credit to say that my enthusiasm for life, my narcissism, and my ability to recover from the pitfalls of life are owed to his ability to surmise common sense.

"Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm."

"Insist on yourself; never imitate. Every great man is unique."

Because if you aren't excited about your own achievements, don't expect anyone else to be. By the way, did you read about The Apple on My Desk? Being weird is synonymous with being great. And finally the words that get me out of bed on lesser days:

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could."

Kurt Vonnegut:
The Wise Man Bringing Myrth

Kurt Vonnegut was a genius. There, I said it. Of the three, he is hands-down my favorite wise man. I've yet to meet anyone who has taken the time to read Slaughter-House Five and not fallen in love with it. The man has made me impossibly jealous of three little words: "So it goes." Kurt was honest, and brilliant, and hated the semicolon; but most people don't mind them. Vonnegut was a master of mirth. It's funny because it's true or terrifying. Honest and humorous, he motivates me to simply carry on. So it goes.

"Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing." -Man Without a Country

"The last thing I ever wanted was to be alive when the three most powerful people on the whole planet would be named Bush, Dick and Colon." -Man Without a Country

"Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand."

The three wise men that keep me going. Now I ask: what's your motivation?

(Header picture source.)
(Sandlin picture source.)
(Emerson picture source.)
(Vonnegut picture source.)

The Seventh Chapter of My Manuscript is Called "Seven" and I Did Not Plan for That.

2009-12-12T20:51:00.000-08:00

Another award? Do I deserve it? I think so.

The crazy wonderful Mireyah Wolfe (of whom I am entirely jealous if that is her real name) bestowed upon me the Picasso award. And, "if I knew Picasso I would buy myself a grey guitar and play." -Counting Crows.

What now? Seven facts and seven dwarfs--uh, other writers to pass it on to. It really is the season of giving.

Facts first:

1. I'm a Greek mythology geek. I have encyclopedias, texts, you name it. I can't see the word pomegranate without making a Persephone/Hades reference.

2. I strike out with men all the time. It's like my thing. I'm really really good at it. ;)

3. I'm embarrassed every time I have to introduce myself to someone new. "Hi, I'm Angela Butts. Feel free to make fun of me."

4. I enjoy solitude. I'm outgoing in groups and I love people but I really treasure the time I get alone.

5. I like non-political documentaries, zoos, museums, historic sites, and almost any educational activity.

6. That being said, I cringe every time someone declares to anyone other than me that I am smart. It makes me feel like an ostrich.

7. My hands are perpetually cold.

And my pay it forward seven:

Shannon O'Donnell, of Book Dreaming

Simon C. Larter, from Constant Revision

Carolina Valdez Miller, owner of Carol's Prints

Frankie Diane Mallis, because Frankie Writes (but rarely says relax)

Sara McClung, tamer of The Babbling Flow of a Fledgling Scribbler

Brittany Landgrebe, who has The Words of a Writer

Courtney Reese, who manages To Keep it Going...

In other news, I will do a legitimate writer's blog tomorrow. You choose the topic:

A) Uncommonly Common (An Introduction to My First Manuscript)

or

B) Three Wise Men (Not the Ones You're Thinking of)

I'm Honored. (Literally.)

2009-12-10T15:32:00.000-08:00

Five in the fifth: because I enjoy drawing paralells.

So super big mega thanks to the one and only Sara McClung for bestowing on me the coveted Superior Scribbler award. (If you don't know about her, you should. Her words glitter like her personality.)

I'm touched. Honored, really. I get the little guy below to post on my page AND I get to list five blogs I've been enjoying lately in my fifth post. Five in the fifth, pretty cool.

Here's my fave five as of late:
1. Frankie Diane, at Frankie Writes
If you want to help a writer make a deal with the universe and force her to remake a music video, you can't go wrong.

2. K.C. Collins, at On the Write Foot
The man knows his Vonnegut and he writes short stories out of nowhere in between his novel. I imagine he is like the male me (but better), pretty much awesome.

3. Shannon Messenger, at Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe
It's not a coincidence she's already won the award. She holds contests, tamed the scary ninjadillo, and manages to write in the meantime.

4. Mireyah Wolfe, at Crimson Ink
She's crazy in a really good way. You'll be entertained by her goings-on AND her knack for finding the coolest images on every post.

5. V.S., at Victoria s.
She's won already too but her words are too beautiful not to give double homage to.

You can't make a bad choice among them so start clicking already!

(Header image found here.)

The Apple on My Desk: Part Three (The Apple Bottom)

2009-12-09T19:02:00.000-08:00

The Apple on My Desk:
The bizarrely true story of how and why an apple has come to sit beside me.
Part 3 of 3

I took pictures with the apple on my desk.

They weren't serious, break-out-the-eight-mega-pixel-digital-camera type pictures. (I'm not that crazy.) I just used my dinky web cam camera that makes everything blurry and me better-looking. I never intended to show them (I absolutely didn't think I'd be writing about them), I was just having fun.

That could be when the change occurred. The apple wasn't a snack any longer. The dynamic was different, it was weird. Posing with fruit is weird, and it made me begin to question my own sanity. (Some people already do.) I wanted to eat it right then and there, I truly did just so I could nip this strange fruit in the bud, but there were bananas on the table. And bananas always take priority because they ripen faster. So I waited. And after a toasted peanut butter and banana sandwich I headed to my tenth consecutive work day, where after I planned to finally annihilate that damn apple.

Of course I failed my ambitions. Who among us is surprised to learn that the apple remained yet another day?

It was no use. By Tuesday the apple had practically reached roommate status. I wasn't talking to it or anything, (I told you, it's not like that) but it was there. It stayed on the empty Netflix envelopes by the dictionary on my desk except for when I tossed it about, reminding myself of Jonas from The Giver, between writing and updating my online statuses. But then much like Asher, Jonas's friend, I dropped the apple.

I felt awful. The apple had survived from Saturday to Tuesday with no more than its initial imperfection, and I dropped it. Hard too. It bounced off the textured wall, hit my hard drive, and then head-butted the metal corner of my desk. I retrieved it with a feeling of utmost guilt. Surely if apples were personified in a way to have feelings, this apple hated me now.

I thumbed the circumference vainly to discover the damage I'd caused the apple. To my delight and bewilderment, I found none. (I should note that this is not a magic apple. Relax, Snow White, it's an ordinary Gala.)

And I left the apple for Wednesday.

For the naysayers who have come to doubt the validity of my saying I eat an apple almost every day: I did eat an apple on Wednesday. It was a Jonagold, and I selected it on the sole basis that it was bigger. (It's true, size matters.)

I considered the Gala as an option, even if you don't believe me. I was hungry for an apple and wanted one after such a long stretch of going without my daily fruit. But as it happened I had been running around that day (literally, I ran the neighborhood and then went shopping) and I was extremely hungry. Jonagold was the more logical hunger solvent.

So thus it remains on the Netflix envelopes: the apple on my desk.

I'll make no more intents to eat it now. It shan't be eaten Thursday or Friday or any day. I can't do it, I won't do it. The apple on my desk has been through a lot with me. It's seen me up and down, I've seen it bruised and bandied by my own hand. It's given me a surprising amount of writing material and I've turned the apple into Pretty Woman (to continue my list).

But so what then? What becomes of the apple on my desk if it will undoubtedly turn to ash and spoil while I continue on?

Well, such is life. Some spoil more quickly than others (it's true of humans too) and eventually everything wastes away. The apple lives on in its own way. It dares to be different.

The apple on my desk was not picked, couriered, purchased, and selected to nourish a belly as so many of its cousins are destined for. No, the apple became a story. Anecdotal though it may be, it has upped the ante for apples everywhere. The apple on my desk was not the sidekick or prop in some timeless tale. The apple was the story. The apple became a monument to my resistance.

If Eve had had the apple on my desk... imagine.

The Apple on My Desk: Part Two (The Core)

2009-12-08T16:39:00.000-08:00

The Apple on My Desk:
The bizarrely true story of how and why an apple has come to sit beside me.
Part 2 of 3

There were four Gala apples in the crisper that day, and the one that now sits on my desk was the smallest. It was the only one with an obscurely tiny puncture mark in its side. It wasn't the reddest, nor the most tantalizing. With the blatant predictability of this pun completely intended, it was the bad apple of the group. And that's why I chose it.

No, I told you already, this isn't some endearing tale you've heard before. This is not Linus finding the Charlie Brown Christmas tree (although I'm massively impressed at how many times Charlie and Linus manage to make appearances in my writing) just because it's hip in the entertainment field to bring up the downtrodden and turn them into a star. (Would you like an example? Pygmalion, My Fair Lady, She's All That, Memoirs of a Geisha, or Ten Things I Hate About You. I could keep going but I'll spare your time.) This is solely about the apple on my desk.

I picked it from the others because it was small and sported a minuscule imperfection. The apple was to be stowed in my purse, lest you forgot, and so one that would save space and not be ruined after being pummeled about inside my luggage-purse was a winner.

Thus it began.

The apple stayed intact throughout all six hours of work. I didn't want for that to happen (I told you, I had planned to masticate that mouthwatering Gala from the moment I placed it in my really-too-big-to-be-practical purse), I just wasn't hungry at work. The apple made it home with me Saturday.

I didn't think much of it then. It was just an apple after all. It still is.

I rescued the apple from my purse's purple depths sometime later that night and set it beside the dictionary I keep on my desk. (The thesaurus stays in my car.) I intended simply that the apple should wait to be paired with peanut butter and be eaten the next day. I do love apples, and I have one almost every day.

I did not eat the apple Sunday.

It remained by my side for the few hours I fruitlessly (you can't possibly be surprised with wordplay at this point) tried to edit my manuscript around work. It was in plain sight, I even handled it. In fact, while I was working and video chatting online to Lisa and Hannah that night the apple became part of the conversation. I made campy unoriginal apple jokes, I even spoke of how yummy it looked and playfully bandied the apple about. The only thing I didn't do was eat it.

I went two days without an apple, big deal. I did claim it was almost every day, not that I was in obsessively dire need of an apple tree to call my own. (Actually, that would be a bad idea since I'm far too selfish to take care of anything but myself. I do currently have one plant named Leonard but he's only surviving because he requires seldom watering. Do not buy me an apple tree--or a pet.) Some days I don't eat an apple.

Monday came after Sunday, like always. The apple was left on my desk.

I probably should have gone and tossed it back into the crisper at that point, but I didn't. I was feeling silly instead. That's not exactly true, I was feeling all down and out about some guy (we'll just say his name is Joe--because it is--for argument's sake) whom I should forget about entirely. (If for no other reason, Lisa would appreciate my making peace so I stop being depressed and needy when I talk to her.) So in the midst of my trying to bring back the strong confident independent woman vibe I try to bring wherever I go, I got silly.

The Apple on My Desk: A Three Part Short Story

2009-12-07T23:04:00.000-08:00

The Apple on My Desk:
The bizarrely true story of how and why an apple has come to sit beside me.
Part 1 of 3

There is an apple on my desk. It has been beside me for a couple of days and it's currently waiting patiently while I write its epic. It's classification is Gala and it's a little smaller than most of its kind but that's okay, it's part of the apple and I like it better for it. This Gala dares to be different. And if I might, I find it quite commendable for this little apple to embrace its size despite the five behemoth Jonagolds that came home from the store and into the crisper with it. (That sort of size differential would bring a grown man to shame if it weren't only an apple I was referring to.) In the past few days this Gala has forged something deep within me. By way of food terminology: I have no beef with this apple.

But this was not always so. There was once a time before I respected this inanimate ball of nutrition so much. In fact, I once intended to eat it.

True story.

I don't remember picking the apple out of the stockpile. This isn't one of those love-at-first-sight (or taste) sort of ordeals. No, this was a slow and steady build up of amicable affection and respect for one another. (I assume the apple has similar affections for me after our time together but I can't be certain of this. The apple doesn't talk or anything--it's not one of those stories--but it hasn't rolled away or allowed itself to tempt another person so I think we're cool.)

I know what you're thinking. At least I know what you should be thinking. I am a once-tempted predator growing to hold affection for something that should be naught but a meal to me; you've heard this story. This story is a blockbusting movie franchise hosting a horribly concocted cast of bad actors. And an apple, too. How much more on the nose could I get with this?

Well, you're wrong. This apple's tale has no business sticking it's stem into vague metaphorical references about itself in relation to whatever position the moon happens to be in during a particular time of day. In fact, it was midday when the apple even came close to me noticing it and I have no clue if the lunar cycle that night was to have a new moon or eclipse after twilight. And it was nowhere close to breaking dawn. Chew over that, you cynics.

What I do remember about the first day with the apple is inconsequential. It was a Saturday and I was on my way to work an odd shift at the studio from three to nine. Six hours that overshadow every reasonable dinner hour is not at all favorable for me but I do what I have to support my fascination for writing (even this). Luckily, I had stayed up far too late the night before and woke up to eat brunch at a pretty random hour. It meant I might be able to hold dinner off until after work, especially if I took a snack to tide me over. And there I was, running only a little bit late and looking for something to toss in my purse so I could hit the road. An apple was the natural choice.

I really love apples, and I eat one almost every day. Sometimes I have two, just because. Not to mention they're delicious, they come individually wrapped by nature, are easy to tote, taste totally awesome with peanut butter, and apparently keep the doctors away, so why not? (Because unless the doctor in question is that sexy Dr. Travis from TV's The Doctors, anyone with a medical license can keep their pointy little bleeding devices out of my arm and stay far away from me. And apples are good for that, or so goes the axiom.) So came the decision: Gala or Jonagold?

For me, Galas are the bee's knees (or the worm's yearn) in apple choice but I do like to switch it up with a nice Golden Delicious or Pink Lady in summertime. It's true I have grown to like Jonagolds recently (and I used to have a thing for Braeburns when I lived in Orlando) but right now I'm pretty much on Gala time. The choice made itself.

This is the crux of the apple's story. The next move I made was critical. And abrupt.

Sunday Kickoff

2009-12-06T12:37:00.000-08:00

Here goes nothing...

My very first post. Aw, it's all shiny and new. There isn't much to say other than there will be more to say.

Till then.

(Much thanks to my good friend for creating the banner dedication to my narcissism and holding my blog together. She's still working on it, I was just impatient to begin blogging.)