Archive for November, 2012

Yeah… no.

I just hit “send” on a query to my dream agency. At first, I was like this:

Hey! Pick me! Pick me! I’m over here!

Then… not so much. It’s now more like this:

Holy… what have you done?


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At least, not out loud.

On the little glass windows of my jewelry box (that sits on top of my desk) are etchings of roses; a bud, a partial bloom, a full bloom, one scene on each door. I thought there was a butterfly near the bud, but it turns out the glass is just dirty on the one side. Martha Stewart I am not. There’s two strands of pearls that hang from the carousel inside on the left, on the right are drawers that contain various baubles. The pearls belonged to my grandmother.

I bought this tiny two-bedroom house because I never intended to remarry. My divorce was hellish. Never again, thought I. Two bedrooms would be enough and, as I said, I am not Martha Stewart. Small house; less to clean. I always thought it would be just me and my daughter, Amanda.

*whoops* The gods had other ideas.

Amanda and I wore those pearls the day I married Bobby.

I’m unconvinced the pearls are real — does it really matter? no — and with nowhere to wear them anyway, they’ve stayed in the jewelry box ever since. Hanging beside them now is a necklace that Bobby gave me one Xmas that was all the rage at the time according to every other commercial we saw on tv. Sort of like the three of us all crammed into this tiny little house, the necklaces are all crammed into that tiny little compartment.

It’s been a long time since I talked about it, but my grandmother lived with us for one year, almost to the day. The day my grandmother moved in was the day my daughter moved out. It wasn’t possible to take care of an eighty-six/seven year-old woman and have four people live here. Did Amanda complain that she had to move out? Not once. Neither did I. At least, not out loud.

Though she often complains that she hates living in her father’s basement, she never — ever — lays blame at the feet of myself, or her great-grandmother.

At least, not out loud.


“Out loud” is a great way to describe the two of us. We are loud. Individually, we’re quiet. Put us together and you’ll wish to gods that we’d shut the fuck up. Just ask Bobby (ha-ha). It’s been that way since she was little, too.

“If you hear your name over the intercom (at school), I’ve scored tickets to The Backstreet Boys, you’re getting out early, and we’re going to Myrtle Beach!”
“Do you know how to get there?”
“Hell, no!”
That totally happened. She was twelve.

She got her first of like five game-worn hockey jerseys when she was about thirteen. She cried. I cried. She still has the jerseys.

“Quick! Get in the gahn-da-lay!” will crack her up every time.

I taught her to drive, stuck to the ceiling of her POS car like a cartoon cat.

She graduated from high school; where did she want to go?
“Welcome ta’ NAW-LINS!”

I took her. We sat on a balcony and had a drink together, cracking on the people that walked by, and were perfectly damned content with life. It made my heart happy. She… makes my heart happy.

My grandmother moved out. Amanda didn’t move back in. Oh, she stays here often enough because her college is seriously only two blocks down the street, but the room that was hers, and for a time, her great-grandmother’s, is now my “office”. You know the one; the one I’m unable to write in. She has “reasons” for not moving back in; reasons we’ve discussed, reasons I understand. Don’t like them, either of us, but there they are. We deal. We’re happier together, because for a very long time we were all each other had, but we deal.

She turned twenty-one last month. The one thing she wanted to do was go back to New Orleans and I couldn’t give that to her. Hell, I couldn’t give her a damned thing except dinner out and a weekend spent in this tiny little house. Did she complain? Not once. At least, not out loud.

I’m blessed with migraines and a forty-pound puppy, so while I’m dealing with a massive headache and a thrown-out back, she came to see me at work this past Friday. She was all freaked out about her major — again — and between the throbs in my head I managed to hear her say, “I can’t do grad school here.”

Really? The biggest med school in Georgia is in this town (yep, my daughter – the semi-sorta-med student), but more to the point, DO WHAT?

“Then where?”

“Valdosta… or UGA.”

It took me about two seconds to get over the shock, to not say what I really wanted to say ‘out loud’.

“I won’t have that shit.”

She smirked. “I know. No ‘dawg’ here, Ma. Valdosta.”

My turn to smirk. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Hell, no.”

Yeah, that totally happened.


So, we’re plotting, planning. Valdosta will make a huge difference in her life — make the “reasons” so much better for her — and I won’t complain.

At least, not out loud.

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What happens on a Sunday when I sit down to write? I try to get over another messed up dream about my submission when every animal in the house starts bouncing off the walls. Quiet them down, start over.

I stare at a blinking cursor. Look back at the storyboard. Stare at the blinking cursor. Bang my head on the desk, wonder what the hell is going on, look back at the storyboard again, annnnd realize what the problem is.

Pack everything up and move to the kitchen table. How in the world do I keep forgetting to move off my desk and out of this room?

Chapter one outlined at 744 words. New cards on the storyboard with more still going up.

I’ll take it, and welcome back my profile pic on Facebook. It’s on.



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Nope, I did not miss Halloween on the blog because of NaNo. I fiddled, fudged, and called myself a rebel last year, so this year I decided to just flat not bother and admit I do not have the energy.

Gods, that hurt.

So, where have I been? Halloween night I was at “The Mill”.


To explain….

My day job… I’m just gonna flick a brow and move on. I came home that day, changed into my yoga pants — my protective totem — and sat in my chair-of-many-colors to wallow in my misery, knowing I’d wanted to get back to the blog and yet … *BLAH*. Two hours later the hubs says, “Well, if you hadn’t come home in a funk, and hadn’t changed clothes, I was gonna say let’s go to the mill.”


My husband either has really good timing, or he just knew I needed a damned break and pulled the right thing out of the air at the right moment to make me do anything but be miserable — I think the later.

“The mill. THE mill. On Halloween night?” I asked.

“Well… yeah?” he responded with a squeak, as if he didn’t know if I was mad at the suggestion or what.

I was dressed and standing at the door in five minutes. No, that wasn’t a writer’s right to exaggerate; I was at that door in five minutes. We walked…

From the front door…

… to the roof.

And took well over 100 pictures.  Way too many to load here.

When we were leaving, my husband went to tell his co-workers that we were out of the building and they had asked him, “Was your wife scared?” Bobby snorted. “Not her.”

Nope. Not me. I was having too good of a time to be scared. I did manage to compose the regretfully abandoned opening line of this year’s NahNo.


The howl of the wind carried the laughter of a thousand corpses — giggling, cackling, clattering their jaws at me as they sang their torment through the night sky.


Maybe next year.



This week’s odd search term: “components of a kick ass query letter”

Sorry, but Google did you a serious disservice by sending you here.

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