My Bipolar Series

A series takes a long time to write, and it's interesting to see how much of your original plans totally change (or downright unravel) through the process. Take Chasing Echoes for example. Originally I had planned for it to be a standalone book. I wanted to read a novel about a teenaged girl who was trapped in a time loop with a guy she didn't like. That concept seemed ironic--and funny--to me. But sadly it didn't exist anywhere. So I decided to write the book myself. Again, as a standalone. Yet as I was outlining it, I realized I needed to provide a reason for my MC and 'some guy' to be stuck in a time loop. The brainstorm went something like this:

Okay, how about my MC has a supernatural dad who--for whatever reason--curses the guy into a time loop? And somehow said-guy drags her into the loop too? YES. This gives her even more reason to hate him. But...why is her dad supernatural? Who or what is he that he can manipulate time? Hmmm. How about we say he's Father Time? Awesome. Done. But wait a sec...if he's Father Time, shouldn't she, as his daughter, be something too? Shouldn't she have powers? Ughhh. Fine. She has three sisters, and each of them is the human embodiment of a season, with coordinating powers. Awesome! Great! This is SO original! But--oh crap--how am I going to incorporate all of this info into ONE book? And why would one "season" get a story but not the other three? *bangs head against wall* FINE. I'll just write one book for each sister...

And that's how Chasing Echoes went from a standalone to a four-part series.

After publishing Chasing Echoes, I did a detailed outline for the second book (Black Lilies). But despite my totally beautiful outline, I went into panic mode and decided I wasn't going to write it. Here's a post I wrote about it: Why I'm Not Writing My Sequel, in March 2016.

And that's how Chasing Echoes went from a four-part series back to a standalone. 

At this point I started working on a totally unrelated dystopian manuscript that I simply adore, The Apathetics. I reached the 12% mark with that manuscript, when for reasons unknown, I got a weird itch to write the first chapter of Black Lilies. Then the second. Then the third. And pretty soon, I was writing the whole dang novel. My writer's block was gone, and I felt excitement for the series again! 

And that's how Chasing Echoes went from a standalone--again--to a four-part series--again.

As I was writing Black Lilies, I started outlining the third book, Spring of Crows, which was going to be Krystal Aevos' (Winter's) book, and I came across two problems. Well, three, really. 

1. An editor friend of mine told me that, due to her age, giving Krystal Aevos her own book switches my genre from YA to MG --an awkward thing to do mid-series. After researching it, I discovered he was correct; young-adult readers don't want to read about a 14-year-old.
2. After Black Lilies was drafted, I realized I only had enough Chasing Echoes material for about another book-and-a-half, not enough for two full books.
3. The thought of writing two more books was making me want to curl up in the fetal position and die.

That second point was quite the conundrum. With only 1.5 book worth of material (if even that), I was faced with forcing prose without enough of a storyline. Aka: Sagging Middle Syndrome. I decided taking away that fourth book would solve all of my problems...including problem #3, which was the stupidest one, but the loudest. Yes, I'd have to tighten my prose, but maybe that would be a good thing. It could lend itself to more intensity for the final novel.

And that's how Chasing Echoes went from a four-part series to a trilogy.
(And also how it was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.)

This decision doesn't come without a little residual sadness. The Aevos sisters are so...real for me, and they each deserve their own book. As a compromise to point #1 (Krystal being too young to be the MC of a YA novel), I decided to split the difference. Book 3 is told through first-person narration from Phee's point of view, but it alternates with Krystal's point of view--told in third-person narration. This gives Krystal a voice, but allows Phee to be the official MC.

This was the best writing decision I have ever made. Knowing that I am now working on the last book in my series feels amazing. Writing Black Lilies was one big homework assignment; writing Spring of Crows is a joy. It's amazing how much your perspective changes when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm so excited at the prospect of having one major work complete because honestly, I don't feel like an author of two books. I feel like an author of one incomplete series. There's no satisfaction in that. But now I'm sprinting to the finish line (in my slow, sluggish way) and am that much closer to having the freedom to work on other projects. Almost-freedom tastes pretty dang sweet.

The Curse of Sharenting

Think about an embarrassing photo of yourself from your childhood. Maybe it's that one where you're sitting naked on a toilet as a toddler, or that prepubescent pic with the giant braces and bad hair. Thank goodness that old cringy photo is tucked away in some dog-eared album, right? A sealed-off remnant of your childhood.

Now imagine that picture, plus hundreds more, posted on Facebook for everyone to see, with cutesy little hashtags, day after day, year after year. One of my 7th grade students got me thinking about this issue right before summer break, when she commented that she had deleted her Facebook account because her mom kept posting pictures of her. "It's not that the pics were embarrassing or anything," she explained. "I just don't want my friends seeing what I'm up to everyday. It's weird."

It's no wonder teenage kids have veered away from facebook and are gravitating toward social networking sites such as Snapchat that allow for more privacy and anonymity. Maybe they’re trying to escape the barrage of childhood photos that force them into endless public scrutiny. Maybe they just want to live their lives without being a “celebrity” on their parents' timelines.

If you're an '80s child like me, you’ve never had to deal with the crux of parents with smartphones. Our personal childhood moments--bath time, potty-training, the first day of fifth grade, awkward junior high dances, etc.--were safely tucked away into photo albums and scrapbooks where only a few close friends and relatives would ever see. Yet as parents today, we never stop to question what it’s like for our own children to have all of these moments (embarrassing, adorable, or otherwise) exploited online.

So let’s pause right now and ask this question: How will the adult version of your child feel having his/her entire childhood chronicled on social networking? As Celia Walden (writer and wife to Pier Morgan) states, our kids have “got a lifetime of being subjected to other people's gaze and other people's judgement.” So why would we, the parents, choose to add to this? At the best, even if our kids are comfortable being in the limelight, highlighting every moment of their lives is taking something meaningful away. If every moment is special then none of them are.

The answer is, we shouldn't.

Even taking our kids’ right to privacy out of the equation, there are other reasons why sharenting is wrong. Such as the fact that it’s inconsiderate to your friends/followers. Imagine going to your Aunt Hilda’s house and being forced to endure two hours straight of little cousin Joey’s photos (a phenomenon that we actually endured in the ‘80s). Yes, you’ll insert the appropriate “Awwww”s and “Isn’t that adorable” in the right places, because you’re a polite person. But meanwhile you’re kinda wishing a chunk of acoustic ceiling will inexplicably fall down and gouge you in the eyeball just to have an excuse to escape. And you’re also kinda thinking Aunt Hilda could use some conversational empathy here, because who in their right mind thinks that anyone enjoys this form of torture?

Yet you yourself do the same thing every day on social media. Nice to meet you, Aunt Hilda. Luckily your family and friends aren't held hostage on a couch. They can slap a polite ‘like’ on your posts and move on. But do you really want to put them in this position rather than simply downsizing your posts to interesting, relevant things they genuinely care about? I constantly hear the argument “If people don’t like what I post, they can unfollow me.” Well kudos to you, standing your ground and all that. But close friends and family will never unfollow you because they're decent people, and maintaining a relationship with you is important to them regardless of how annoying you are on Facebook. So now you’re just *that* person. The person whose grating posts they’ve learned to slap a cursory ‘like’ on as they scroll past.

Another interesting fact about over-sharenting? It’s a sad attempt to dig for praise or approval. When I was a kid my mom's parenting strategies (like many moms of the '80s) fluctuated from amazing to downright crazy and everything between. I could write a book on this woman and the complexities she went through while raising me and my sister. Yet one thing that stands out is my mom never felt the need to constantly showcase her good parenting moments online. To be fair, the internet didn’t exist back then, so no mom felt this need. Being a good parent in the ‘80s had its own intrinsic rewards, such as creating laughter, warm feelings, and unscripted memories with your kids...memories that were never cheapened by the rehearsed facade of a facebook post. But many moms today have the mentality that good parenting is wasted if it’s not publicized on facebook. Like, “If others can’t see how much I’m rockin’ it, what’s the point?”

Over-sharing mommies, it's time to face reality. Other than Grandma and maybe that super devoted aunt (who you can easily text), no one cares about your thousands of photos. And on some level you know this, which means you're doing it for yourselves. For the likes. The comments. The dopamine rush you get every time someone reacts to your post. The positive affirmation. As stated by 'Wellness Mama' Katie in her article Why I Don't Post about My Kids Online, “I get it. Parenting is hard and positive feedback is helpful. I definitely bounce ideas off of friends or ask for advice in person. I just try really hard not to use my kids as a means for social affirmation.”

The final (and possibly most important reason) moms need to escape the clutches of sharenting is because constantly being in Photographer-Mode means sacrificing the present for the future. That is, you miss out on so many of life's amazing, impromptu moments in your attempt to capture them on camera--all so you can look upon that snapshot later and reminisce on a memory that you never truly experienced. Instead of fake-smiles for the benefit of the camera, let's embrace the genuine smiles our kids radiate when they're living life for real.

I’m not suggesting that we should never post pics of our kids. Our kids are a huge part of our lives and it would be silly to pretend they don’t exist. In the last few months Facebook has shared memories of my daughter holding a crocodile, my son hanging upside down from a punching bag, and both my kids engaged in an epic shaving cream battle in the bathtub (clothes ON). But there’s a difference between sharing an occasional whimsical or anecdotal moment of your kids, versus turning your timeline into a relentless baby album chronicling every moment of your child until he is now ten-years old and frankly not-so-cute anymore (sorry but...truth). I know the excitement of being a brand new mother and wanting to share every moment of the experience, which is why upon entering motherhood I called my own mom every-other-day and texted her a barrage of photos. But for the sake of social networking, one or two carefully selected pictures a week will still capture the adorableness of your handsome little cherub just as well as a dozen.

Remember, once your child reaches the age of awareness, it is no longer your life and your experiences you are sharing. It is theirs. And frankly, some things need to remain unshared, and precious. Childhood should be one of them. How about we stop feeling consumed with posting a record of everything our kids experience, and just enjoy the moments as they come? My most treasured moments with my kids are the ones you don’t know about. Why? Because I keep them close to my heart--not on Facebook.

Sharp Edges and All

I've had this image sitting in my inbox for about a year. Other items get deleted or shuffled into various folders, but somehow I can't get myself to delete this one. Maybe it's because I love this little guy beyond words. I see this picture and I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Because he couldn't find what he was looking for. Yet that didn't stop him.

It's not ideal. It's not what I wanted. But it's home, and I'm going to make it work. Sharp edges and all.

That's what I imagine him thinking. It reminds me of one of my all-time favorite lines of poetry, shared to me many years ago by a dear friend:

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

The hermit crab doesn't feel sorry for himself as he searches for his perfect home and comes up empty-handed (or empty-pinchered?). He has no concept of self-pity. He simply trucks forward and stuffs himself into the closest approximation of "home" he can find, then lives out his little life as if he has lost nothing.

Someday when I grow up, I want to be as resilient and gutsy and strong as him. Forget my other New Year's Resolutions. This is the one that matters:

I vow to be a hermit crab stuffed in a broken piece of bottle. 

On an unrelated note, this song came on Pandora in my classroom the other day.

I've heard it before, but this time it sort of paralyzed me. I get to school early--about an hour before school starts--and this is going to sound weird (and probably inappropriate), but there's a certain feeling of intimacy I get when I'm in my classroom alone. Maybe it's just because the room is so crowded and bustling and overwhelming throughout the day, so to sit there in the still hours of the morning and hear the hum of the heater and the faint rustling of the building...it just feels so tranquil, that calm before the storm. I keep my doors locked, and I listen to music while I prepare for the day. If it's a fast song I'll dance like no one's watching ('cause hey, no one is). But if it's a song like this one, I freeze, and I end up leaning back against a desk or staring at the ceiling, too moved to move.

I'm such an emotional sap, damn it.

*searches for glass-bottle-shell*

My Empathetic Sadist

Blogging friend and fellow writer Krystal Jane has mentioned more than once in her posts that she is a character-driven writer. I think this means that she creates her characters first (or they instantaneously leap into her mind and demand to be written), and then she proceeds to find or fabricate the story world that would best serve these larger than life personalities. 

I'm the complete opposite. I guess you could call me a story-driven writer. I come up with my story concept first (which usually starts with a what-if scenario--i.e. "What if there was a society in which everyone could, with a single touch, transfer their pain?") and then proceed to create the characters that would best fit my concept. In other words, unlike Krystal, I've never had a character "demand" to be written (kind of sad, actually). A story concept, yes. A character, no.

Until now.

For the first time ever, I am being stalked by a character. I am so in love with him, but sadly I have nowhere to put him. I am tentatively calling him Grayden, but that might change later. Grayden was partially inspired by Eric's E-mails to Young Damsels (I suspect Eric is also a character-driven author), and partially inspired by a flash fiction piece I wrote last year called The Apathetics. I'm going to give a quick profile about Grayden, but first I have to start by defining two key terms:

em·path noun \ˈempaTH\ (chiefly in science fiction) a person with the paranormal ability to apprehend the mental or emotional state of another individual.  

sa·dist noun \ˈsā-ˌdi-zəm, ˈsa-\: a person who derives enjoyment from being violent or cruel or from causing pain.

Okay, where am I going with this...? Well, Grayden is a sadist in love with my MC, Audrina. He is constantly visualizing the disturbing things he wants to do to her, and is very open and honest in communicating his fantasies with her in conversations similar to this:

Audrina: "Whatcha drawing?" 

Grayden: "Oh, just a little sketch of you tied to a tree and me whipping you with a switch." 

Audrina (leaning in): "Are those needles on the tip of the switch?" 

Grayden (coughing): "Uh, yes. Sorry." 

Audrina: "Oh. Okay." (pauses). "You want to go to the movies later?" 

Grayden: "Sure."

See, the catch is, Grayden is also an empath...which is why Audrina is so inordinately calm with him. He can never act on his sadistic fantasies, because his ability to apprehend the emotional state of others causes him to feel the anxiety/fear his pain is causing them. And sadly, he has no masochist tendencies. That is--while inflicting pain on others excites him, he hates enduring pain himself, so he is unable to act on his primal sadistic urges (kind of like someone who loves chocolate but can't indulge in it due to an agonizing cavity). Audrina is fully aware of Grayden's most-contrary psychosis and has remained his one true friend (though I'm not sure if her caring for him will ever translate to romantic feelings).

Okay, I wrote a whole bunch more about Grayden and Audrina (including some exposition discussing how the two met and how Audrina discovered Grayden was, well, crazy), but realized I was getting carried away ranting about two characters who I probably won't be able to accommodate into a story for another decade. So I'll just sum up by saying I love the impossible complexity of Grayden. I love the challenge of trying to translate his very disturbed character into a protagonist, along with the dynamic of the reader trying to figure out whether he's a good guy or a bad guy. Also, I'll have to decide how far to let Grayden's fantasies go or how often he "slips" (i.e. sometimes I'll push through that toothache to enjoy a piece of chocolate...will Grayden be tempted to do the same?). But his character is way too colorful to not write into a story...someday.

In other news, I'm still trudging through revisions of my MS, and I hereby take back every nice thing I have ever said about this process. I sort of hate revising with a white hot searing passion. I'm getting ready to start my fifth (or is it sixth?) rewrite of DoT's final chapter, and the good news is I think I came up with an approach for that chapter that will solve most of its problems. The bad news is I'll probably end up throwing my laptop off a balcony before I see it through.

Horror-Phobic

You guys know I hate horror, right? Blood and gore...can't do it. Which makes no sense, because I wasn't raised as some thin-skinned sissy lala. Seriously, Shan and I could wrangle spiders and hold snakes and weren't afraid to get down and dirty. We were the ones out in the desert building forts--never playing with dolls--and refusing to cry if we skinned our knees (my sister broke her entire femur bone once and never so much as shed a tear). So I'm not sure where this very 'girl-like' aversion to horror comes from. When I was little, my mom loved horror movies. Not that she was really into meaningless slasher flicks or paranormal horror (like Nightmare on Elm Street...remember that one? I still remember some chick getting eaten by her mattress), but she loved anything having to do with serial killers preying on guileless young women (seriously, this was my dear, sweet mother--what is WRONG with her?). Anytime the butcher scenes would flicker across the screen, I would dive under the blankets, clamping my eyes shut and covering my ears. Or I would run out of the room completely. My mom would playfully laugh and holler out "Come on, it's all just fake!" And I knew she was right; I knew it was fake. But such scenes didn't simply gross me out. They actually made me feel sick and miserable. And I wasn't the only one who suffered from horror-phobia as a child; Shan was the same way.

You would think as adults we would have grown out of this. You know...gain enough life experience to be able to separate fantasy from reality. But no. I might actually be worse as an adult, maybe because after years of convincing myself that I can't cope with horror, I've deepened my own psychosis. But whatever its roots, things get bad for me very fast if I happen to catch a glimpse of a grisly, gory death on television. First I get that miserable, sickened feeling, and I feel like I can't stop myself from internalizing what's happening on the screen, even though I know it's not real. I anguish over the character being hurt/tormented, and if I can't turn the channel fast enough, I'll start breathing hard, sweating, and going into some sort of panicked state of paralysis (my damn 'deer in headlight' issue). If for some God-forsaken reason I still can't change the channel (remember, I'm paralyzed now, and the kids probably hid the remote in the fridge), then I would be forced to curl into the fetal position and scream out ridiculous chants or nursery rhymes (i.e. "Cinderella-dressed-in-yella-went-upstairs-to-kiss-a-fella...") until the scene is over (or until someone goes to to get a slice of cheese and finds the remote). By this time, I'm probably shaking and feeling like I'm about to throw up.

And this is coming from the person who didn't break a sweat through a 7.4 earthquake and didn't bat an eye when she had to clean maggots out of an injured chicken's butt.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

But, I am proud to say I wouldn't be writing this post if there wasn't some hope. I did discover recently that my steadfast Just-Say-No-to-Horror rule does have an exception or two.

Exception #1: I can handle reading *some* horror if I know (as in, have socially interacted with) the author behind the spine-chilling story. Even if the story is something that would normally thrust me straight into a horror-phobic panic, somehow knowing the face behind the words takes away the threat. It's like I can suddenly "hear" what my mom kept trying to tell me all those years--"This is NOT REAL." Yes, I know now this is not real, because I can see the person who created it, and I can gasp at this hair-raising scene and yell at the author for writing such atrocities and tell him what a douche he was for making me feel petrified and have a big laugh about it. Phobia? GONE. Just like that. You can't be paralyzed by a spider in the midst of holding and playing with one. You can still be scared, but your fear can't win.

Exception #2: I can handle reading *some* horror if the writing is exceptional. The horror genre (like any genre) is flooded with bad writing. Sadly, even mediocre writing is bad writing when it comes to horror, given how easy it is for gory scenes to translate as cliche or contrived (there's only so many big-boobed blondes you can massacre before your readers start getting bored). But I discovered recently that horror in the context of beautiful writing can be intriguing as all get-out. It still leaves me unsettled, unnerved, and a whole slew of other "un--" words, I'm sure, but I can cope. And the story, for better or worse, leaves a lasting impression on me, which is what good writing should do.

The Christian in me, however, along with the person who inherently hates human torment being flaunted and trivialized, will never be okay with horror, and will never choose it as a genre. I believe evil is real, and I would no sooner dive into horror than I would sit in the middle of my tumbleweed-infested yard playing with matches. Horror reveals a side of human nature that I have no desire to explore, and once its dark fingers start reaching inside of you, I don't know how easy it is to yank them out.

But I have to admit the dark little artist in me--the same one who painted THIS--

--sees the appeal (and then gets disturbed by that fact, and runs away screaming).

That being said, I have to admit that I am massively addicted to a series being written by horror/erotica writer--and twitter friend--Eric Keys. Though he is only two installments in, he calls these posts "Emails to Young Damsels." In the series, Eric draws from his collective experience from past attractions/infatuations/loves-gone-awry to create letters (or e-mails) to someone he addresses as "Young Damsel." Even though he talks to this young damsel as if she were a singular person, she is actually a symbol of all the women (aka: 'young damsels' ) in his life who have left an imprint on him. Though these letters are not exactly horror, they are deeply unsettling, disturbing, and do touch slightly on horror elements (i.e. the first one is titled "Your Screams are Like Music"). And damn are they beautifully written. I think part of it is the shock factor. They read so much like love letters, written from an eloquent, wistful soul, until you suddenly get a fork thrust into your chest via unexpected lines that give you a glimpse into the madman behind the words. For example, the first Young Damsel letter contains this excerpt:

Not sure why your absence seems more deep, today. But it does. This past week I longed for one more conversation. I felt like all the loose threads from so long ago still dangle. How long has it been? Years? Decades? And yet it seems like just a handful of days. 

And yet, there seems an odd beauty in it all. Like the threads blowing about in the wind creates a more vital art than any tidily knitted rug would ever be. 

But I still wish you were here. Sometimes beauty is painful.

That line "Like the threads blowing about in the wind creates a more vital art...," just...wow. Frankly I find this entire excerpt to be pure poetry. Oh, but wait. It gets better. He follows it with this:

Anyway, you are out of my reach for now. Consider yourself lucky as I have dreamt up some lovely, hideous things to do to you. Oh, your screams would be like music.

Um, WHAT? Enter: Madman. It's sheer brilliance. To make you fall in love with this woebegone soul, only to blindsight you with his insanity. Some readers might even find themselves feeling a little jealous of the young damsel that incited such depth of emotion and expression from him...until those last two sentences. At that point, they're thinking "Run, Damsel, RUN."

A part of me feels guilty for loving these letters. I mean, let's face it, the narrator is a bit of a sadist with morbid fantasies about the "hideous" things he wants to do to his young damsel, and he clearly gets off on making her feel scared. But on some twisted level he deeply cares about her (them), which makes it hard to outright despise him. * In other words, he is the best villain EVER. The villain that you're not allowed to root for, but you do, secretly, anyway, hoping no one will know that you empathize with his plight.

So in my whole "Am I a terrible person for liking this stuff?" debate (this debate was with myself, so it was pretty lame as far as debates go), I came to this conclusion: It's okay for me to enjoy this series. Because writing is art. And art explores all facets of human nature. It's supposed to make us curious and disturbed and intrigued. Just like any sculpture or painting, it's okay for me to let my eyes travel over it, take it in, pull whatever meaning from it that I perceive, and walk away when I choose.

Or I'm probably a terrible person making excuses. But the above sounded pretty good, right?  ⌘


*Disclaimer: (If you decide to read the first two installments of Eric's "Emails to Young Damsels," please note that while he does draw on some real-life experiences, this series is a work of fiction. In real life Eric is a very stable, non-stalkery, unthreatening, self-proclaimed "softie").**

**(Although, no offense Eric, I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley at night)

Follow Your Dreams [Right out the Window]

Have you ever seen Mike and Molly? I've always enjoyed the simplicity and light humor of the show (and the fact that the characters don't look like skinny models who stepped out of fashion magazines), but this most recent season has propelled me from somewhat enjoying the show to downright loving it. To understand why, watch this clip (it's only a minute long and completely worth it):

Oh my gosh you guys, she's a TEACHER (just like me), who feels stuck in an endless cycle of middle-aged drudgery (just like me) and decides, on a completely spontaneous whim, to quit her job and follow her dreams (just like me--okay, no--but just like I fantasize doing every other day). And it gets even crazier. As the season progresses, Molly decides to become a writer. A WRITER! She quits teaching to write. This woman, however fictional she may be, is my hero.

For the record, I do love my job. My school (aptly dubbed "the Ranch") is about as awesome as they come. I never wake up feeling like "Ugh, I have to go to work today." My school site is my second home, and I love stepping onto its friendly campus every morning. I love the quirkiness of my students. I love it that I get to be one of the people in their lives helping to guide them through the crazy and uncertain transition from childhood to adulthood.

But there's a certain dynamic to teaching that makes you feel like you're stuck in a rut. I've tried [unsuccessfully] so many times to explain in past blog posts this feeling...the feeling that I'm trapped in a really jacked up time loop (seriously, I've said it here, here, and even here...). Even the conflict within my MS is a time loop...gee, I wonder how my subconscious managed to dredge that one up. The thing is, every year I go through the same events and put up with the same dramas, and it feels so special and new to my students, but to me, it's the "same ole' same ole'." At the end of the year, they get to move on to bigger and brighter things, while I'm left to clean up my room and start all over again. Rinse and repeat. The faces change, the names change, but it's all the same. Year after year. When Molly states, "You guys only have fourth grade once, I have all of this for thirty more years," I don't think I've ever related more to a line on television.

Even better is when Molly asks the kids (who couldn't be more apathetic), "Do you ever just kinda stand back and look at your life and think 'This is not where I ought to be'?" Yes, Molly, yes! I have! I love my job, but I can feel it down to my core that I'm not in the right place. I wish I could be crazy like she is. I wish I had the guts to give up my stable, secure, pleasant job and trade it for something much more scary--something with no guarantees. No safety net. Writing. JUST writing.

But I can't. Or, I won't. I live here, in non-fiction land with bills to pay and expectations to meet, and where the fear of failure is too real. So for now I'll just continue to live vicariously through larger-than-life characters like Molly and fantasize about jumping out that window and never looking back.

Spring Break Hodgepodge

This is post #499.  I thought it would be really cool to make post #500 the very last one before switching over to the new blog, but now I'm not sure if that's going to happen.  The problem is the new blog isn't ready--Shan and I haven't worked out a template, nor have we figured out the details of a duel ownership over the new blog.  I want to avoid the dynamic of one of us being labeled the primary owner, while the other one is labeled as a "guest blogger."

Oh, if you haven't noticed yet, my sister's a lop (as referenced in certain areas of my right side-margin).  She refuses to write on here anymore because her eyes are fixated on the gleaming new blog.  "Why bother with the old one when you're just getting a new one?" is the basic premise here.  She's also resigned to letting her home slide down the mountain because they're eventually planning on getting a new one of those, too.  Okay, I might have made up that last part.

So Universal Studios was pretty brutal.  Two kids got lost from their group; one was turned into me by a security guard.  The other one I hunted down myself and found him sitting (with no cell phone) on a bench near the tram tour.  But even the wandering-off kid issues were something I could make my peace with; it was just the whole day was exhausting.  My Builders Club students are usually responsible, but for some reason, when we mixed them up with Incentive Club members, the whole dynamic of both clubs changed.  The kids were loud and wild.  The worst was the bus ride home.  I think my ear drums are permanently scarred.

The rest of spring break has been pretty awesome so far.  I've been able to take the new compound bow out three times now, and I'm starting to get pretty comfortable with it.

I was shooting at a cardboard turkey on the ground.  If it were a real turkey, he'd be walking around with arrows sticking out of every part of his body except for his head--he'd be the only one of his buddies with arrow-plumage.  Yeah, I need to work on my aim.  As long as the weather stays nice, I'll probably go again tomorrow and Wednesday.

Besides playing with my new bow, I've been writing in the evenings, but not as much as I'd like.  I'm still stuck in that editing trap where I keep smoothing out the already-written stuff instead of moving forward in the story.  I joined a writing club two weeks ago, which I'm feeling pretty excited about.  Just one meeting and I already made some great connections.  Although it's strange, because I'm significantly younger than the other members (by significantly, we're talking about twenty years).  At 34, I would never expect to be the baby of any group.  But I guess most people wait until they're empty-nesters and/or retired to pursue their passions.  Honestly, the age gap didn't really bother me.  Once you start talking shop with other writers and authors, you forget all about the age difference.  Unfortunately, the club only meets once a month.  I'll have to join a critique group within the club if I want to do any real writing.

I started a painfully easy painting of a peacock for my living room that hopefully I'll finish this week.  The problem is I'm bored with it.  It's more shapes and colors than an actual animal.  I chose this particular image for the colors, which I think will compliment my living room, but I'm not particularly impressed with the peacock itself.  Oh well, I'll finish it anyway. 

In other news I dreamt that some sort of sewer lines going into our school's bathrooms exploded, and my entire classroom filled up with crap.  I'm not good with dream analysis, but that one seems about as eloquent as they come.  I just wish my subconscious could conjure up more clever symbols to use in dreams.  I mean, sewer lines?  And crap?  Those are the best metaphors my brain could come up with?  Yay me and my beautiful aptitude for poetry.  

A Tale of Two Billy's

Nope, nope...THIS one is FOR SURE the most romantic song ever (again, this will change by tomorrow.  Or even by 11:58 tonight).

Yes, I do realize that I have some sort of love song psychosis right now.  I'll work on that. 

Clint told Trin if she ever comes home with a plastic ring from her boyfriend, he'll have to beat the dude to a pulp for not having more class.  I said I thought the whole plastic ring thing was incredibly sweet and romantic.  I like love stories that start off with humble beginnings.  I still remember in sixth grade, a boy named Billy bought me a plastic diamond ring for ten cents from the student store.  He put it in a brown lunch sack and placed it in on my desk when I wasn't looking, with a note that said "From your secret admirer."  The next day I received a little brown bear, and this time he signed it "Love, Billy." 

The thing is, there were two Billy's in the class.  I thought the gifts had come from the other Billy, who happened to be cuter (in that pretty boy-band sort of way), and the one who all the little girls swooned over.  So the next day, when I got a note asking "Will you go out with me? Yes [bubble], No [bubble]," I checked "Yes." 

Shortly after, I found out that I was going out with the wrong Billy.

In retrospect, I should have appreciated the Billy that I ended up with.  He was much more thoughtful and witty than Boy-Band-Billy.  But grade school girls can be shallow.  Even though I went through the motions of being his "girlfriend" and enjoyed our little dates on the playground, I knew deep down that my fondness for him was only because he was the one who gave me the ring.

Once I entered seventh grade, Billy called me and asked if I wanted to have a long-distance relationship with him since we no longer shared the same class.  I said "Sure!"  I think that was our last conversation.  We never broke up, so technically speaking, he's still my boyfriend. 

But here's the thing:  No matter my lack of a geniune attraction for Billy, or who he's married to now, or what kind of gorgeous rock he put on her finger, I'm always going to be that little girl for whom he first bought a ring.  And he will always be the first boy in my life who gave me a ring.  So the plastic ring thing?  Romantic. 

I hereby rest my case.         

The Apathetics

Celia was six years old the day she stopped liking people.  

She and her best friend Annie had trailed a little too far into the unfenced depths beyond Annie’s backyard when they stumbled upon the most perfect tree.

“Let’s climb it!” Celia pumped enthusiastically.  Annie reciprocated with an eager “Me first!” scrambling up the trunk before Celia could object.  

But when Annie reached about four feet from the ground, her foot slipped from the branch.  Celia watched in horror as her friend fell.  

Luckily it wasn’t the biggest fall in the world.  Annie waved her arms wildly on her way down, grasping onto chunks of tiny branches and fistfuls of leaves, slowing her cascade to the ground below.  But she still hit the rough hard-packed dirt with an impressive thud.     

“Owwwwwwwww!”  Annie yowled, clinging tightly to her bare left thigh right below her jean short cut-offs.  The skin on her thigh was already puckering with a splendid scrape; vibrant red in the center, bluish along the edges.  Blood oozed from the skinned crevices of her raw flesh like thick lava worming its way from a sleepy volcano.

Celia, heart pounding, ran frantically to her friend.  At their fresh age, injuries of this magnitude were rare.  Annie might as well have lost a limb for the panic that Celia felt pulsing through her veins.

“Annie!   Oh my gosh, Annie!  Are you okay?”  Celia reached down to help her.

“Oh Celia, it hurts soooo bad!”  Annie answered in a high-pitched voice, her body writhing.  Her eyes darted fretfully to Celia’s as she reached forward to accept her help.

But when their fingers touched, something unusual flickered across Annie’s pupils.  A look that Celia had never seen before on her friend...yet one that she recognized.  A look of uncertainty, followed by the briefest glimmer of guilt. 

Celia gasped in pain. 

What?  No…!   

She ripped her hand from Annie’s and doubled-over to grab her thigh.  Although it wasn’t puckered with red and blue, pain surged through her leg.  She could feel the raw skin, the little pieces of tree bark embedded within her flesh, the bruise swelling beneath the surface of her skin.  Logically she knew that none of these things were actually there—this was Annie’s injury, not hers.  But she could feel all of it.  Tears sprung to her eyes as she glared over at her best friend.

“Annie, how could you?!”  Hurt and fear laced her voice.  

“I’m sorry,” Annie pleaded.  “I never meant to…I’m sorry.  I just couldn’t take the pain.  I won’t do it again.  Please, Cee Cee, you would’ve done the same thing.  I just couldn’t take it….”

And that was the day Celia stopped liking people.  Because she lived in a world where people could give away their pain.  And in a world where people broke their promises.  

Tortoises, Microwaves, Bees, etc.

Two nights ago I had another dream featuring Clint's sister, although this time, she wasn't really a major player in the dream.  I was in her classroom, and on the counter was a tortoise habitat, complete with a heat lamp, plant-life, and two desert tortoises.  Amanda was in a neighboring room talking to some parents, so I went over to the habitat and picked up one of the tortoises.  I held her for a moment, but then, suddenly, I lost my grip and dropped her.  She landed on the hard linoleum floor and her shell shattered.  Half of the shell cracked off completely, vertically, from head to tail.  I felt devastated.  The poor thing looked pitiful, with half of her tender, fragile body exposed to the world.  I carried the broken tortoise to Amanda to show her what I had accidentally done.  I can't recall her exact words, but I do remember that she wasn't mad, and I was surprised by her understanding.

Then, last night, I dreamt that my sister broke her wrist while changing some tubes in her microwave.  I never saw the accident happen, but I saw a facebook status update written by Shan.  It stated:

I broke my wrist while changing some tubes in my microwave.

Do microwaves even have tubes?  Anyway, that was the end of that one.  The dream was only about five seconds long.  But I did get on facebook when I woke up to check and make sure no one had broken anything.

In waking news, yesterday was my and Clint's 13th anniversary.  I actually forgot that it was even approaching until two days prior; Clint forgot completely until I told him.  We still managed to get his parents to babysit last night while we went out to a nice dinner.  And he brought me home a box of Lucky Charms, which was really cute.  It was my favorite cereal back when we first started dating, and sort of has an inside  story all of its own.  Yesterday I also went to lunch with Sarah, and we talked for over three hours while the kids played.  The time flew by so fast...it felt like it was only a half hour.

Despite how packed the day was yesterday, parts of it were actually a little emotional for me.  Shannon has been talking to our paternal grandmother, and she learned some little tidbits about our biological dad that she shared with me.  None of it was anything big, but compared to the little scraps of him that I currently have, it felt big to me.  After hearing what she told me, I felt so strange and off for the rest of the day.  Not in a bad way at all.  I can't really explain it.  Then when we went to pick up the kids from Clint's parent's house, Carey and I were talking about my Bible challenge, when he showed me a Bible that Clint and I had bought for him over ten years ago (I had long-forgotten about this book).  He had read the entire book in a year.  He started right before Clint and I moved to Wisconsin, and right before Shan moved to Oregon.  During that year, he had scratched things that happened throughout the year in that Bible, along with other notes and thoughts.  I read the things he had written, and it made me cry.  Well, I managed to keep the tears sucked into those shrimpy tear ducts of mine while I was there, but I was just about losing it inwardly.  The things he had written...I never knew how much he cared about me, or my sister.  And what a humble, spiritual man he is.

Eventually I'm going to give more details about the Bible challenge, but this entry is already getting long, so I'll just give a quick update. As of today I've completed Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and about a third of Deuteronomy. So far the most difficult chapter has been Leviticus. The easiest chapters have been, of course, Genesis, and the first two-thirds of Exodus (Exodus does get pretty challenging toward the end).

As far as my manuscript, I now have the majority of two chapters written. But, unfortunately, they are not the first two chapters. For some reason, my brain doesn't seem to want to piece this thing together in the correct order.

Today I took the kids to the park to go swimming, but it sort of sucked.  The pool was over-crowded, plus they had way too many rules.  I mean, I get the whole "No running/No diving" thing, but the lifeguards were blowing their ear-piercing whistles every time you splashed, carried each other in the water, "crowded" the stairs, etc.  They may as well have posted a sign that said "No having fun."  After swimming and lunch (we went to McD's dripping wet and reeking of chlorine), I made an outdoor habitat for Shelly, because she was starting to outgrow her tank.  This required shoveling dirt, and it was hot today.  Digging holes in the sun definitely does NOT build character.  It just makes you cranky and thirsty.

Oh, one more completely unrelated thing.  While we were driving to Soledad Canyon, we ran into an entire flock of bees.  I'm cursing myself right now because I know it's not called a "flock" when you are referring to insects, but I can't remember what it's called.  "Drove", maybe?  Anyway, we ran into a--SWARM, yes!!--of bees, and of course they all smashed right into our very large windshield (think RV windshield, here).  So we had hundreds of little bee carcasses plastered onto the glass right before our eyes, with no way of avoiding looking at them, because we're driving.  So (I know I keep saying "so", but I'm lacking other good transitions right now) Clint turned the windshield wipers on, pushing the button on the side to spray some fluid.  But the fluid refused to come out (even though he topped it off before we left on the trip), and the dry wiper blades ended up smearing bee guts all across the glass, with no way of washing it off.  At this point, we could barely see out of the windshield.  Basically a bad problem just turned worse.  We were still miles away from a gas station, so Clint ended up having to douse the window with water from a water bottle, and then use the wiper blades to wash the remains away.  Moral of the story:  Don't run into bees!  It is very, very gross.