Twitterpated

What do you do when you think you’ve heard something, but it could have been your imagination intervening with the thing you WANTED to hear?  Why doubt?  Why think about it?  Why not just ask, “Did you just say what I think you said?”  Fear, but it’s illegitimate fear.  This game is way too fun.  Whether he said what I heard, or just made it up doesn’t matter I guess … I know how I feel.  Which scares me even more.

By the way, pistachio ice cream with jimmies are the BEST!

Edward Cullen, Or Why I Hate/Love Myself

First off, let us pretend we didn’t take a two+ month hiatus from blogging.  We shall wipe the slates clean (as we have done SO MANY times before), and we will forge on with our new found vigor.  As for the business pointed at in the title to this post, well, if you haven’t yet been exposed to the Twilight “phenomenon,” then you’re in for a crash course on the hero.

So, Edward Cullen is a tallish, semi-muscular teen heart-throb vampire.  He excels in obsession, stupidity, with a steamy pile of chauvanism to boot, but, even I have to admit, these elements combined create a hawt character.  The fact is dwarfed by how many times Meyer tells us this fact through Bella’s narrative, but I’m not here to rag on Stephanie Meyer … not today. (We love you Meyer.  We really do.  Especially Rhiannon, but I love you too.  I mean, I’m reading them a second time now.)  Conversely, I consider myself.  A not tallish–by any standard–semi-ghetto booty’d twenty something novelist, who excels in inventing words, fancy grammar, and stories.  On the surface, we are nothing alike.

It’s upstairs (in the brain) where we currently correlate … to my great shame, amusement, and luck.  I’m not sure if I am quite there yet, and I won’t use Meyer’s words, but I’ve been hit just as hard as Edward was when he first saw/glared at Bella.  I’m afraid that is as clear as I’m going to get in this post.  We’re getting more private than I usually get, and since it involves another (who might not want this information published all over the internet), that is as far as I dare speak about it to you all.

Another giveaway clue: I’ve written another poem.  Or, I’ve started writing another poem.  I have the first draft done, and a couple ideas floating around for ways of cleaning it up and making it something worth reading.  Every word counts in a poem … and the fact I am THAT motivated to work on the poem … surprises me.

In other news (haha), we finished the rough draft!

“Yeah, a month ago!”

More like 19 days ago.

“Same thing.”

Yep.  We’re excited (and that was all Joey, for those of you who were curious, Rhiannon has had nothing to do with this post … unless you count the Rhiannon in my brain … since we share one.  Yeah).

23 chapters, 600ish pages, 132,000+ words (sorry about the non-exact number, I’m writing from my sister’s place tonight).  It took us just over nine months, and it was one hell of a term.  We had a book, and it’s … well, it needs to go back in the oven for a couple more months, but don’t all babies work that way?

*Ducks as the Mom’s of the world descend upon me*

“ALL BABIES ARE BEAUTIFUL!!!”

Happy Mother’s Day!

*Enables [White-Out Ability] which casts a veil of invisibility over the user for one hour and flees from battle*

Yeah, sorry about the silly mood.  It’s part of that Edward Cullen thing.  I feel like I can be more myself.  I feel like I WANT to be more myself.  Part of that involves putting myself out there.  Exposing how I really feel … not only to those I’m close to, but to everyone.  I want to share how good I feel.  I am NOT willing to do that at the disregard of others’ feelings though … but I had to write about this today.

Hasta la pasta, for now.

P.S. We dive back into writing on the 13th of May.  Why?  It’s the new moon, and what better time to start growing the book than when the MOON starts growing?

Eyes Look Your Last

So, I’ve epically failed at quitting smoking lately.  Just thought I’d put that out there.  This entry is being written because I’m ill-contented with my life as it stands (“Aren’t we all!” screams the guy in the back row).  I don’t want to divulge everything, because I feel like that would be complaining and I really have nothing to complain about.  The reason I’m not happy right now is plain and simple:  I’m not the person I’d hope to be at this point.

Just to be clear, this has nothing to do with the goals I have for my life.  This has nothing to do with writing, or becoming a best selling novelist, celebrity or any of that.  None at all.  I’m happy where I am and where I’d headed with my career.  It’s my personal life I’m not satisfied with.  Here’s a regular conversation I have with myself:

“You should go to the gym,” the Angel on my right shoulder says while I suck in my gut.

“That requires getting into gym clothes” I respond, “and you either look great or you look FAT-AS-HELL in gym clothes.”

“If you go to the gym, then you WILL look good in gym clothes,” says the Angel.

“Yes, but that doesn’t help the fact that I look FAT-AS-HELL now.”

“Besides,” says the Devil on my left, “then you’d also have to shower, and none of your gym clothes are clean.  You wear them to bed you know…and they smell like it.”

“He has a point,” I say.

“You know that’s bull shit,” says the Angel.

“I know.  But as soon as I go back into my room I won’t care.”

Or some other such silliness.  It’s always about my weight, smoking, or being single.  And in a way they are all connected.  I don’t even think about not liking my job anymore, because I know I’m working towards that with my writing.

I titled this entry ‘Eyes Look Your Last,’ because that’s what I hope to do very soon.  See the last glimpes of the fat, lazy, room rat.  90% of my computer time is wasted time.  Writing this blog, however, is not included on that list.  I want to write more blogs.  I spend a lot of time on the computer just looking useless shite up.  For the first time in a long time I want to trash my room…but this time not trash it in rage…just get rid of all the things that I don’t want in my life anymore.  Something inside aches for me to put off that task, though.  One day at a time, I know…but here’s to hoping.

High Heeled Shoes

I’m always joking with my friends about how I’m barely a girl sometimes. On the list of things I enjoy doing on a Saturday, shopping is probably as close to the bottom as one can get.  Handbags, accessories, jewelry – none of it holds my interest.  But of all the girly things out there,
the one I hate the most has got to be high heeled shoes.

Seriously, I hate just about everything about them. Sometimes they’re cute, but cute is not enough to convince me to stuff my feet into them; bunnies are cute, as well, but same idea, unless they happen to be slippers.  I hate how they make my ankles feel wobbly and unstable, I hate how sore my legs and feet are when I take them off, I hate how they click as I walk down the hall.  I hate when OTHER people click down the hall in heels.  The noise they make has me secretly hoping the offender falls flat on her face.

Lastly, I hate that it’s near impossible to wear a dress or a skirt without wearing high heels.  Most of the time, flats look silly with a skirt, but heels bother me so much that I rarely get dressed up. If I could wear sneakers and a skirt, I’d probably be all about that. Thank God, for Sketchers: without their dressed up sneakers, work would be complete hell for me.  High heels = work of the devil.  That is my rant for the week.

Limbo | Volume I, Issue 3

I was intending to write about something completely different.  In fact, I spent two hours writing an entry I have no intentions of posting.  I just deleted it all.  Why?  A part of me is living in limbo, and I want to explore that in this entry.

The Catalyst

My writing has always been extermely important to me, and recently it has taken the front seat in my life. This has put me in a rather strange position.  A position I’ve never willingly accepted in my life before.  I’m letting my entire future hang on the writing of this series.  My writing is my life.

Writing takes up about 70% of my thought processes at the moment.  About 25% of my thought is given to my addictions, and the remaining 5% is spent thinking about everything else.

I guess it comes down to a simple thing.  That last 5% is wanting to take up more of my time.  One thing specifically, relationships.  It’s not very often that I feel lonely.  I share my life with my family and my friends, and I have no problem  making romantic gestures toward those close to me.

You know…I’m going to end this somewhat nonsensical entry here.  It’s about something more than just a morning dump’s worth of bathering.  It’s about love.  What is it?  What do I think of it?  Do I really think about it?  Is it out there for me?  I want it, but do I know what I want?