I bebop toward my office with a happy little booty shake, clutching my acceptance letter from Flash Me Magazine tight in my grubby, ink-stained hands. I want to post it on my wall. A bright shiny beacon of success to stand out against the dreary wallpaper of rejection notices.
I step across the threshold and see them, all three of them. I pause. Kristen looks at me. “How could you?” she sniffs before she throws her nose up in the air and turns her back on me.
“How could I what?” I turn to Reese. “What is the drama queen talking about? What have I done now?”
Reese stands there, a stack of papers in his hand. “You would rather spend your time with these…these…” He glances at the story in his hand. “These children than with us.” Shaking his head in disgust, he tosses the papers back on to the desk. They slide to the floor in a scattered mess. He spins on his heel and storms from the room.
A deep sigh escapes me. These people that live in my head are going to be the death of me.
“Careful what you think,” the third character in the room whispers in my ear. “I could make it happen.”
Yikes! A shiver runs down my spine as I hide the acceptance letter behind my back. I better get back to work on Prey.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
You put what where?
Life at my house is never boring.
For example, let me share with you a text message exchange that occurred between myself and my teenaged son earlier this week...
Son: Hey, Mom, when u get home look in my bathroom. I left ya’ something there.
Me: What?
Son: ; p
Me: Son…
Son: A surprise
Me: What is it?
Son: Nope. Surprise.
Time passes. I worry. I text Son.
Me: What kind of surprise? Good or bad?
Son: Good… I think.
Me: Tell me… NOW
Son: It’s a goat.
Me: WHAT?!? You left a GOAT in your bathroom? WHY? How did it get there? Where did it come from? How old is it? Does it have food? Water?
Son: 2 yrs & yeah, water
AAARRGGHHHH!!!!! Does anyone know how much damage a 2 year old goat can do in a small confined space? I finally get home from work, race to the bathroom, fling open the door and find... a horrible smell, a huge mess and...
a three week old "bottle baby" goat.
I cleaned and deodorized the bathroom, found a new home for the baby goat, and asked my son nicely to avoid bringing me any more "surprises"!
As I said, life at my house is NEVER boring.
For example, let me share with you a text message exchange that occurred between myself and my teenaged son earlier this week...
Son: Hey, Mom, when u get home look in my bathroom. I left ya’ something there.
Me: What?
Son: ; p
Me: Son…
Son: A surprise
Me: What is it?
Son: Nope. Surprise.
Time passes. I worry. I text Son.
Me: What kind of surprise? Good or bad?
Son: Good… I think.
Me: Tell me… NOW
Son: It’s a goat.
Me: WHAT?!? You left a GOAT in your bathroom? WHY? How did it get there? Where did it come from? How old is it? Does it have food? Water?
Son: 2 yrs & yeah, water
AAARRGGHHHH!!!!! Does anyone know how much damage a 2 year old goat can do in a small confined space? I finally get home from work, race to the bathroom, fling open the door and find... a horrible smell, a huge mess and...
a three week old "bottle baby" goat.
I cleaned and deodorized the bathroom, found a new home for the baby goat, and asked my son nicely to avoid bringing me any more "surprises"!
As I said, life at my house is NEVER boring.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Just a quick note...
...to say I'm dancing on the ceiling. "Holy Root Beer" was accepted for publication today. The story will debut April 30th in Flash Me Magazine. I will post more when my head comes out of the clouds and my feet reach terra firma again.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I'm not crazy. I promise.
“Pssst! Hey, Lady.”
I look around the office. No one here but me. I go back to writing. I love writing during my lunch break. I can go a million miles away without leaving my desk chair.
“Hey, you. With the pen.”
I point at myself using the pen. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. When do I get to tell my story? I heard those babies whining at you. That cowboy with his poor pitiful me, I killed somebody and don’t know what to do attitude and that stupid girl who thinks this is her story." The shadowy figure in my head rolls its eyes. "What the hell? Who do they think they are? Don’t they know this is my story?”
A door opens and closes. I lean out of my cubicle and peer around the corner. Oops, the boss is here and giving me that funny look. You know the one. The look that says she is wondering if she should call the guys in the white coats with the butterfly nets.
“Don’t ignore me. I deserve to be heard. After all, without me, there wouldn’t be a story.”
I peek around the corner. Yep, the boss is still watching me. Crikey! They already think I’m crazy. What are they gonna think when I start talking to my “imaginary friends”? “Look, whoever you are, can we talk about this later?”
“Yeah – no." The black hood of the sweatshirt starts to slip in response to the violent head shaking going on. Gloved hands grab it and pull it back up. "Aren’t you working on Prey right now?”
“Well, I was trying to before you interrupted me.”
“Tell me something. How can you work on my story if you won’t listen to me?”
Hmm, good point. Maybe I should have thought of that. How do I know whose story I am writing? How do I decide who I need to listen to? These characters are driving me crazy. “So, you think this is your story?”
“Well, duh. How can you have a murder mystery without a killer?”
As I start to respond a buzzer sounds in the distance. Uh-oh! Here comes the boss…
I look around the office. No one here but me. I go back to writing. I love writing during my lunch break. I can go a million miles away without leaving my desk chair.
“Hey, you. With the pen.”
I point at myself using the pen. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. When do I get to tell my story? I heard those babies whining at you. That cowboy with his poor pitiful me, I killed somebody and don’t know what to do attitude and that stupid girl who thinks this is her story." The shadowy figure in my head rolls its eyes. "What the hell? Who do they think they are? Don’t they know this is my story?”
A door opens and closes. I lean out of my cubicle and peer around the corner. Oops, the boss is here and giving me that funny look. You know the one. The look that says she is wondering if she should call the guys in the white coats with the butterfly nets.
“Don’t ignore me. I deserve to be heard. After all, without me, there wouldn’t be a story.”
I peek around the corner. Yep, the boss is still watching me. Crikey! They already think I’m crazy. What are they gonna think when I start talking to my “imaginary friends”? “Look, whoever you are, can we talk about this later?”
“Yeah – no." The black hood of the sweatshirt starts to slip in response to the violent head shaking going on. Gloved hands grab it and pull it back up. "Aren’t you working on Prey right now?”
“Well, I was trying to before you interrupted me.”
“Tell me something. How can you work on my story if you won’t listen to me?”
Hmm, good point. Maybe I should have thought of that. How do I know whose story I am writing? How do I decide who I need to listen to? These characters are driving me crazy. “So, you think this is your story?”
“Well, duh. How can you have a murder mystery without a killer?”
As I start to respond a buzzer sounds in the distance. Uh-oh! Here comes the boss…
Monday, February 15, 2010
"Hey, hey Mister, are you okay?"
No response. "Somebody call 9-1-1 and bring me an AED."
Living in rural Texas, better known as BFE, my husband and I are often first on scene at major vehicle accidents. We don't do this on purpose. Accidents just seem to jump up in front of us or beside us. One day, driving to work, minding our own business, we hear a whooshing noise like a jet engine, look to the left and see a small pickup truck flipping end over end down the road beside us at 80 m.p.h. We park next to the truck as it comes to a stop and I spend the next hour holding the driver's head together. Due to accidents like these, I decide to go back to school to become an Emergency Medical Technician.
Saturday's class makes me wonder why. Don't get me wrong. The instructors are top-notch: patient, intelligent, understandable. My classmates are a smart, eclectic group ranging in age from eighteen to quite a bit older than that. We come from many different backgrounds but we all have one thing in common. We want to save lives. So back to why...
Why do they always have to pick on me?
Our class is divided into squads. I'm on squad three. We think we're the number one squad - something about saving the best for last. The instructor hands out pieces of butcher paper about five feet long to each squad. Our assignment - to draw the human body.
"So this means," the instructor says, "that you need to trace around one of your squad members."
All eyes in my squad turn to me. "Hey, wait a minute." I throw up my hands and start backing slowly away from the group. Where is that blasted door?
"But you're the only one short enough to fit." They advance on me, markers in hand.
"But, but, I'm five foot one... and a half" Yes, the half is very important to me. They surround me, drag me back to the table. Yes, I said table. They couldn't put the paper on the floor. Oh, no. The paper covers the table. Surrendering, I crawl up on the table and lay down on the paper in the anatomically correct position, flat on my back, hands out to my side.
A flash of light blinds me. Now wait a minute! The instructor is taking photographs. Talk about heaping on the humiliation. Finally they finish and I climb down from the table. The instructor walks by and wants to know where my feet are. I told you that inch and a half were important - I didn't fit on the paper after all. So there.
We draw in the bones of the skeleton, the major portions of the circulation system, the lungs, bronchi, etc. Our drawing looks like the mashed remains of a train wreck. We flip the page over, retrace the outline, divide the abdominal cavity into four quadrants and add the organs.
I look at the multi-colored outline. Hmmm, my hips aren't as wide as I thought they were.
"Hey, Instructor, can I keep this drawing?"
Living in rural Texas, better known as BFE, my husband and I are often first on scene at major vehicle accidents. We don't do this on purpose. Accidents just seem to jump up in front of us or beside us. One day, driving to work, minding our own business, we hear a whooshing noise like a jet engine, look to the left and see a small pickup truck flipping end over end down the road beside us at 80 m.p.h. We park next to the truck as it comes to a stop and I spend the next hour holding the driver's head together. Due to accidents like these, I decide to go back to school to become an Emergency Medical Technician.
Saturday's class makes me wonder why. Don't get me wrong. The instructors are top-notch: patient, intelligent, understandable. My classmates are a smart, eclectic group ranging in age from eighteen to quite a bit older than that. We come from many different backgrounds but we all have one thing in common. We want to save lives. So back to why...
Why do they always have to pick on me?
Our class is divided into squads. I'm on squad three. We think we're the number one squad - something about saving the best for last. The instructor hands out pieces of butcher paper about five feet long to each squad. Our assignment - to draw the human body.
"So this means," the instructor says, "that you need to trace around one of your squad members."
All eyes in my squad turn to me. "Hey, wait a minute." I throw up my hands and start backing slowly away from the group. Where is that blasted door?
"But you're the only one short enough to fit." They advance on me, markers in hand.
"But, but, I'm five foot one... and a half" Yes, the half is very important to me. They surround me, drag me back to the table. Yes, I said table. They couldn't put the paper on the floor. Oh, no. The paper covers the table. Surrendering, I crawl up on the table and lay down on the paper in the anatomically correct position, flat on my back, hands out to my side.
A flash of light blinds me. Now wait a minute! The instructor is taking photographs. Talk about heaping on the humiliation. Finally they finish and I climb down from the table. The instructor walks by and wants to know where my feet are. I told you that inch and a half were important - I didn't fit on the paper after all. So there.
We draw in the bones of the skeleton, the major portions of the circulation system, the lungs, bronchi, etc. Our drawing looks like the mashed remains of a train wreck. We flip the page over, retrace the outline, divide the abdominal cavity into four quadrants and add the organs.
I look at the multi-colored outline. Hmmm, my hips aren't as wide as I thought they were.
"Hey, Instructor, can I keep this drawing?"
Friday, February 12, 2010
"Excuse me..."
Click, click, click. The echo of high heels tapping across ceramic tile pulls me from a sound sleep. The faint scent of sugared vanilla floats on the air. I blink, look around, don’t see anyone and try to go back to sleep.
“Excuse me?” Someone pries my eyelids open – from the inside. “Could you wake up a minute? We need to talk.”
I hate this. Why do my characters always need to talk at 3 a.m? I roll over on my side. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“No, actually, it can’t.”
Heavy sigh from me. “Ok, Kristen, what is it that can’t wait another three hours?”
“It’s that man. That cowboy. I heard what he said about me yesterday. About me hogging all the attention. Just who does he think he is?”
I groan. You’ve got to be kidding me. My children are grown. I shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing anymore. Why do I have to deal with jealous characters? “I don’t know, Kristen. A Texas Ranger, maybe.”
She stomps her foot causing a sharp pain to shoot through my head. “I know what he is. Who does he think he is? I can’t help it if he had a horrible childhood. Why should he take it out on me? I can’t remember my childhood.”
“Kristen, please.” Why am I always begging these people who live in my head to leave me alone? “It’s 3 a.m. I need my sleep.”
“Fine. You have time for him but you never have time for me. I see how it is.” She flounces back to whatever room in my brain where she hides. Blam! The door slams sending another wave of throbbing agony through my skull.
Guess I’ll get up, take some ibuprofen and write. Maybe when I finish this novel they will go away and let me sleep.
Happy writing!
“Excuse me?” Someone pries my eyelids open – from the inside. “Could you wake up a minute? We need to talk.”
I hate this. Why do my characters always need to talk at 3 a.m? I roll over on my side. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“No, actually, it can’t.”
Heavy sigh from me. “Ok, Kristen, what is it that can’t wait another three hours?”
“It’s that man. That cowboy. I heard what he said about me yesterday. About me hogging all the attention. Just who does he think he is?”
I groan. You’ve got to be kidding me. My children are grown. I shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing anymore. Why do I have to deal with jealous characters? “I don’t know, Kristen. A Texas Ranger, maybe.”
She stomps her foot causing a sharp pain to shoot through my head. “I know what he is. Who does he think he is? I can’t help it if he had a horrible childhood. Why should he take it out on me? I can’t remember my childhood.”
“Kristen, please.” Why am I always begging these people who live in my head to leave me alone? “It’s 3 a.m. I need my sleep.”
“Fine. You have time for him but you never have time for me. I see how it is.” She flounces back to whatever room in my brain where she hides. Blam! The door slams sending another wave of throbbing agony through my skull.
Guess I’ll get up, take some ibuprofen and write. Maybe when I finish this novel they will go away and let me sleep.
Happy writing!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Blogging, huh?
I started this process because a member of my writer's group asked me "Where's your blog?"
Blog? What blog? Why do I want a blog?
"Everyone has a blog," he said. “You have to have a blog if you want to be a serious writer.”
So, ok, here I am. Now what do I say?
"Oh, pick me! Pick me!" The imaginary cowboy who lives in my head dances around, jumping up and down, hand in the air.
"Not now, Reese. I'm busy." Now, what am I going to write about? I drum my fingers on the desktop as I cock my head sideways and stare out the window.
Tap, tap, tap Reese taps on the inside of my skull. "Hello out there. I know you're there. Let me out. Let me tell them the story about Edwards."
"Reese, go away. It's not time to talk about Edwards. We have to finish Prey first."
"I'm sick of Prey. That woman gets all the attention. I want to tell my story."
"Reese, please. I'm trying to work here." I resume staring into space. Hmmm, maybe I could blog about small town USA. I’m sure I can come up with plenty of fun stuff there. Or maybe my EMT class. That would be a good one. Lots of interesting things happen in class and on the ambulance. Gotta watch out for that HIPAA law, though.
Bam, bam, bam “Hello-o-o. Remember me?” Reese kicks the inside of my skull. “I’m telling you. They want to read about me.”
“They can read about you in Prey.”
“Yeah, if you ever finish it.” Reese mutters.
“What did you say?” Reese is really starting to get on my nerves. Can’t he see I’m busy here?
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But don’t your readers want to know why I killed Edwards? Or do you think they would rather hear about the way I grew up with my great-grandfather having Vision Quests and going to the sweat lodge?”
“Reese, shut up. You’re distracting me. A blog is serious business and I have to figure out what to say.” I’m getting a headache. Maybe a cookie will help.
Blog? What blog? Why do I want a blog?
"Everyone has a blog," he said. “You have to have a blog if you want to be a serious writer.”
So, ok, here I am. Now what do I say?
"Oh, pick me! Pick me!" The imaginary cowboy who lives in my head dances around, jumping up and down, hand in the air.
"Not now, Reese. I'm busy." Now, what am I going to write about? I drum my fingers on the desktop as I cock my head sideways and stare out the window.
Tap, tap, tap Reese taps on the inside of my skull. "Hello out there. I know you're there. Let me out. Let me tell them the story about Edwards."
"Reese, go away. It's not time to talk about Edwards. We have to finish Prey first."
"I'm sick of Prey. That woman gets all the attention. I want to tell my story."
"Reese, please. I'm trying to work here." I resume staring into space. Hmmm, maybe I could blog about small town USA. I’m sure I can come up with plenty of fun stuff there. Or maybe my EMT class. That would be a good one. Lots of interesting things happen in class and on the ambulance. Gotta watch out for that HIPAA law, though.
Bam, bam, bam “Hello-o-o. Remember me?” Reese kicks the inside of my skull. “I’m telling you. They want to read about me.”
“They can read about you in Prey.”
“Yeah, if you ever finish it.” Reese mutters.
“What did you say?” Reese is really starting to get on my nerves. Can’t he see I’m busy here?
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But don’t your readers want to know why I killed Edwards? Or do you think they would rather hear about the way I grew up with my great-grandfather having Vision Quests and going to the sweat lodge?”
“Reese, shut up. You’re distracting me. A blog is serious business and I have to figure out what to say.” I’m getting a headache. Maybe a cookie will help.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
