Untitled Novel-in-Progress

As promised, following is an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project:

     Abbot contemplated for a while longer and then picked up the phone. She answered on the third ring.

     “Diane, sweetheart,” he started. “How would you like to attend the final performance of Giselle on Friday? I have an invite to the wrap party. I know how you love those.”

     Diane Richards was one of Abbot’s few repeat offenders, as he liked to call them. These were women whose company and conversation he enjoyed enough to take them out more than once. Most of them agreed over and over because they all thought they would be the one to change him, to get him to finally fall in love and settle down. They were all gorgeous, young and guaranteed to drape themselves over him at any social event, if only to keep him from flirting with any of the other women there.

     Diane was Abbot’s favorite of them all, mostly because she was as dumb as she was pretty and because her social climbing aspirations guaranteed she would do anything he asked, just to ingratiate herself with the New York elite. Abbot liked the control he had over Diane. It would come in very handy on Friday night.

Doppelgangers

Oh, the embarassment. I hate when that happens. I really do.

I have a friend of a friend who I’ve met twice at parties and last saw in May. His name is Adam.

Friday night, I was in Borders, wandering around, and I passed a couple guys looking at stuff on a table and talking. I caught the eye of one of them and he looked an awful lot like Adam.

So, I thought, if this is Adam and I don’t say hello, I’m a jerk for not recognizing him. So, I said, “Are you Adam?”

And he said, “No, I’m Brian.”

Luckily, Brian had a sense of humor and we decided I am not completely crazy, just a little bit crazy. And I’ve decided that people need to stop looking like each other because it’s very confusing.

Getting Over My Block

I guess what I needed was a deadline, a goal. It seems to me that what I’ve been talking about for years is actually within reach.

Last night, I grabbed my little Inspiron Mini and headed to Borders to work on my novel that I’m writing for the NaNoWriMo challenge. I’m way behind (about 9,000 words) from where I should be, but I started five days late. In two days, I’m a little ahead of what the daily goal would be if this were the second day of the challenge. I think, had I worked on this instead of sleeping all day, I would be caught up. Because, in fewer than 90 minutes at Borders, I wrote more than 2,000 words.

Even if I don’t make my goal by November 30, I will not stop writing this novel. I will finish it.

And it’s not just this challenge. My friend Leslee asked me (among other people) to write a short story for her blog, Waiting for the Click. And in a short time one morning, I wrote an 800-plus word short story, completely off the cuff. She’ll publish it November 19. I’ll put up a reminder, but please check it out on that day.

My habit has been to start writing something — I have a lot of great ideas in my head — and then go back to it and re-read what I’ve written and second guess myself, deleting and rewriting entire sections, starting over completely and then finally getting frustrated and giving up. This is why I didn’t even come close to my goal of having a manuscript ready to shop to agents by my 30th birthday … almost three years ago now.

What’s really difficult right now to wrap my head around is that after all these years and all the frustration, in a month, I will have a novel. Finished. Ready to be critiqued and edited and shopped to agents. And that means there is a possibility that I could have a published novel in the next year or two.

The odds are against me in this, but I’m still going to try. And finishing one novel will teach me that I can do it. I can sit and write and actually finish something. And so, even if this is not the book that will be my big break, I will keep writing and one of the books I finish will be.

For those of you waiting for me to finish the book I previewed here, I promise, promise, promise that it will be my next project. When I finish the one I’m currently working on, I’ll pick that one up again and hammer it out.

As for this one, there will be an excerpt published here on Monday for you all to read and tell me what you think. Feedback is very important, so don’t hold back!

Oh, the Frustration

I’ve always known there were specific rules on formatting a manuscripts for submission to agents of publishing companies. Most agents won’t even look at a manuscript that doesn’t follow the rules.

One rule I can never remember off the top of my head is to underline words that should appear in italics in the final published work. I had to look up the proper way to format these words today (Thursday) so that I can type them properly now and won’t have to go back through my NaNoWriMo novel and fix everything if I feel the finished piece is good enough to start shopping around to agents (please, please, please let it be so!).

In my search, I came across several sites that concur with the underlining rule (something an agent told me years ago, as well). But then I found a publishing company site that says to italicize these same words. One site says to use Courier typeset, while this publishing company says it’s easier for them if you use Times New Roman, although they aren’t concerned about what you use, in particular.

And then there’s the debate over whether to use one space or two after periods. And no one seems to agree which is best, although one person commented on a blog that you use one in all fonts except Courier (which is the font I’m using because another site said it’s the easiest to read and therefore the preference of agents and publishers).

What I’m hoping, hoping, hoping is that when I get to the point of submissions, each agent or publisher will have on his or her or its website specific guidelines for submitting to that particular agent or publisher. Find and replace is a very convenient feature that I love very, very much. I can easily change all underlined words to italics. The only problem is if I do the entire document with a single space after periods (my habit these days), double spacing will be more time-consuming. Maybe I should change my habit. Because it’s easier to replace a double space with a single than the other way around.

I wonder, though, why I can’t just write a great book and be done with it? *sigh*

Well, I have 7,501 words to go today to catch up to where I should be, so I better get back to it. I promise novel excerpts to follow as postings in the next few weeks, probably starting tomorrow!

I’m Gonna Do It!!!

It’s called NanoWriMo, and I’m starting late and far behind, but I’m determined. The goal, should you choose to accept it (and I have) is to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.

Technically, I should have started November 1, but I didn’t even find out about it until yesterday. I think I’d heard of it before, but never remembered to look it up. Yesterday, I found a blog by a woman who has done this for five years running and I bit the bullet and signed up.

It’s time. I need this.

Apparently, it’s all about goals and deadlines for me. My friend Leslee asked me to write something for her blog, and yesterday I sat down and wrote an 820-word short story. So, I know I can. (Once she posts this on her blog, I will link to it from here so everyone can read it.) I already have a couple novels started, but I haven’t gotten very far with them. Now is my chance.

I’ve decided it doesn’t matter how good the writing is, as long as I finish it. I can go back and revise. And I will send it out to agents once I do that. This is my promise to myself. I can certainly dream that this time next year, I will either have or be on the road to having a published novel.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned for excerpts!

The Pink Fuzzy Slippers

On my desk is a photo tree, a gift from a former coworker. It says, “On the verge of greatness” on the base. It holds seven photos: two of my daughter, one of my best friend on Jacksonville Beach with the daughter of her former fiancé, one of my best friend and me as very young children sitting in a drawer, one of me parasailing over Paradise Island in the Bahamas with a guy named Ken, one of several of my friends on the lawn of our middle school having a picnic (Amy, Cindy, Jessica, Kalika and Ellen, specifically and in that order clockwise) and, finally, a photo of a pair of hot pink fuzzy slippers.

I’ve told the story of the pink fuzzy slippers to many people over the years, mostly when they’ve noticed the photo. Because, well, the photo needs explanation.

Since I don't have a scanner at my disposal at the moment, I took a picture of the picture with my cell phone. I apologize for the poor quality, but you get the idea.

The last time I was in New York City was October 2002. My (now former) friend Kristine and I stayed at a hotel in Newark, New Jersey (where you can’t turn left!), and drove into the city early on Saturday morning. We parked the car and began our exploration of the city. I do not recommend this to anyone. It was slightly chilly, but then it rained and we were just plain cold all day with nowhere to go rest. We stood outside the window at Fox and Friends and called our parents to turn on the TV. We went through part of the Metropolitan Museum and I didn’t see even a fraction of what I wanted to see. We hung out in Times Square (and had breakfast there, which I also don’t recommend because it was expensive and not particularly good). We shopped a little.

Battery Park Sphere from the World Trade Center.

We made our way down to where the World Trade Towers once stood and looked at the empty lot and memorials. We saw a bunch of tourists who did not have American accents line up in front of one of the memorials, put their arms around each other and smile big for a photograph. I found this blatant disrespect repulsive and will never forget it. We went to Battery Park and viewed the one remaining remnant of the towers: a large globe sculpture that was relocated after the attacks. Then we walked to the edge of the park and looked out (WAY out) at the Statue of Liberty.

Then we jumped on the subway and headed back to the car. We again had to walk through Times Square and right past the Metropolitan Opera House. People dressed in very fancy garb stepped out of cabs and limousines and headed inside. It was Saturday evening and the city was coming alive.

Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, New York

And on the sidewalk, in the rain, in the dark, directly in front of the world-famous Met, were a pair of brand new-looking fuzzy, hot pink slippers. Just sitting there. All alone. Without feet to fill them.

So, of course, I took a picture. I had to.

It wasn’t until later that I thought about what I did. To this day, I have to wonder. Did someone put those there on purpose? And did that someone hide somewhere with a video camera to see how many stupid tourists would stop and examine and photograph those slippers?

And if not, I guess I will never know how they got there or why. But I will always have my photograph to remind me they were.

When I Was a Child

My childhood was filled with magic. Real magic. I swear it was. I still believe it.

As an adult, when it comes to practical things, I’m a realist and a bit of a cynic. But I still refuse to stop believing in fairytales and all that implies.

I long ago lost touch with my friends Sarah and Rachel Cook (they were sisters). And the last contact I had with Sarah was a letter telling me all about their current lives. It wasn’t good. Neither of these beautiful, talented, imaginitive, intelligent girls grew up to be well-balanced women. And it was incredibly sad to me. I intended to answer that letter and keep in touch, but I lost track of time and never got around to it and now I don’t know where she is anymore.

Pegacorn

So, I get to remember them both as my partners in fantasy.

My mother returned to work full time when I was in second grade, which meant I had to start attending an after school program called Latchkey. This is where I met Sarah and Rachel. Sarah was a year ahead of me in school and Rachel a year behind. Their father was a professor at Elmira College in the drama department. Perhaps that is where they got their abilities from.

We believed in unicorns, Pegasus (although at the time, we didn’t know Pegasus was a creature out of Greek mythology) and “pegacorns.” A pegacorn is a winged unicorn.

Pegasus

Sarah and Rachel could draw, something I could never do. They used to draw me beautiful pictures of all these creatures and I hung the pictures on my bedroom walls. The pictures are long since gone, but live on in my mind.

For some reason, I saw more rainbows in that short period of years of my life than I have in all the rest of the years of my life. I’m still in awe of them when I have the privelege of finding one.  But back then, we would try to find the end of the rainbow, fully believing there was a leprechaun’s pot of gold at the end of it. If only we could get there. If only I still could. Because, despite all I know about prisms and water bending light and all the science behind rainbows, I still believe there’s much more to them than that. The science is just a ruse to fool the unbelieving and stop them from finding the truth about the world.

A unicorn with a rainbow

I think every little girl has a memory of spinning in circles in an open field somewhere, getting dizzy and falling down in a heap. We did that. A lot. But to us, this spinning and getting dizzy and falling down was an entry into our fantasy world. I would close my eyes upon hitting the ground and picture vast open fields of green with a blue sky, puffy white clouds and rainbows all around. There was a castle there. I was the princess who lived in the castle. And I could work magic spells in this world in a way I couldn’t here on earth. Because, while I believed magic was real here, I couldn’t do it myself … yet.

We pretended we were characters from the cartoons we watched. We were no Looney Toons girls. We watched He-Man, She-Ra, Thundercats. Anything set in another world with serious and fantastical themes. It was so much fun.

We played on swings, soaring so high we were sure we would flip around the top bar. This was, in fact, our goal. We didn’t really think that doing so could end in our deaths or at least maiming. I don’t think we cared.

The tire swings in our school playground were the type that swung around in circles without the chains getting tangled up. We used to get them going really fast, then one of us would stand up, hold on to the chains and let go with our feet and “fly.”

Oh, what a time we had! How I miss those girls. How I miss those days. When I think about going back to a time past in my life, it is that time.

Wherever you are, Sarah and Rachel, I love you. And I still believe. I hope you do, too.

A Few Changes Going On

So, I’m finally figuring out how to work with this site. I never intended to name it “Lifeissweet’s blog.” It just came out that way when I set it up and I COULD.NOT. figure out how to change it to something more interesting.

Well, today I tinkered around a bit and somehow stumbled upon the magic page on which I could change the name! So I did. If you look ^^^^ to the top left of the page, you’ll see it.

I feel much better.

The website will remain the same, though.

My So-Called Life Part Deux

"Why are you like this? ... Like, how you are?"

I spent a good deal of last Sunday and most of this past weekend watching all 19 episodes of My So-Called Life. It’s been probably 12 or 13 years since I last watched an episode, but as I watched, I remembered what was coming before it happened. I remembered specific lines and storylines. It was kind of surreal.

But what hit me most profoundly was how intense it all was. For a long time, I have said that I enjoyed high school, but I wouldn’t want to go back and relive it. After watching this show again, I have to say I’ve changed my mind.

At this time in my life, I identify most with the adults on the show because that is the stage of life I’m in now. But I remember being 15, 16, 17, 18. I remember all of it. Not just what I did, but how I felt. And I realized this weekend that I will probably never again feel things as intensely as I felt them then.

At that age, it seems, everything is just waking up inside a person’s head and heart. Everything is new, and it’s as if your entire body and all your emotions grow incredibly sensitive nerve endings and so everything that happens in your life increases 100-fold in how you experience it. As an adult those senses dull from overuse and while you still feel things, the intensity is much less.

And this is why I want to go back. I would probably do a lot of things differently. I would definitely appreciate my body more. I had a good one, but I was always self-conscious about the size of my breasts and I thought I was fat and gross, so I hid behind oversized shirts, I guess to keep anyone else from noticing me.

So, yeah, I want my almost-perfect teenage body back, but without the insecurities I had when I was a teenager. More than that, though, I want to feel again. I want the intensity and the excitement and the stomach butterflies I no longer feel. About anything. Ever. I want the possibility of the rest of my life in front of me again. I want to have crushes on boys I’m too afraid to talk to. I want new friends without the adult walls in the way of becoming truly close.

I have made a lot of new friends over the past year here in Tallahassee and before that, in St. Marys. But since I lived in Amherst, I haven’t made new friends to whom I’m comfortable saying, “I love you.” I moved away when I was 28. I met those people when I was 26. I’m not sure at what age we start closing ourselves off, but it must happen as we approach 30. Perhaps it’s life that gets in the way. Perhaps it’s all the lessons we learned growing up, when we felt too strongly and therefore hurt more when life went awry.

We close off because we’re afraid and busy. It takes longer to get to know people and trust them with your deepest thoughts, good or bad.

I think we all need to step back and revisit our old selves. We need to remember and relive it as adults. We need to open ourselves up to the possibility of pain in order to experience the pleasures of life to their fullest. We should all watch Angela Chase and her merry band of adolescent angsters at least once every year. So we can remember.

And No One Drank the Wine

“Can I see your ID?” the Walmart cashier asked as she rung up the bottle of cheap red wine.

Tally never drank wine. She didn’t like it. But she knew her guests would probably want it. She only had a single bottle of white left over from her last party.

The cashier’s question caught Tally by surprise. It was rare anyone every asked anymore. At 32 years old, she found it unsulting they didn’t ask when signs posted clearly stated, “ID required for anyone appearing under 40.” Were the cashiers just lazy? Or did she really appear older than 40?

This particular cashier assured Tally the latter was not the case. Whether this was the truth didn’t matter. It made Tally feel good, anyway. She handed over her driver’s license, paid the bill and headed home.

Besides the wine, Tally bought a tablecloth and some disinfecting wipes with which to clean the dust from her car. She’d also stopped at another store prior to Walmart and had three bags with her when she arrived home.

Only one of those bags had something breakable in it.

A few moments later, Tally stood in her kitchen disentangling the three shipping bags and her purse, attempting to set them on the kitchen table before unpacking. One bag slipped from her grasp, crashing to the hard tile floor.

Red wine seeped like blood from where the broken glass tore the bag, wending its way down grout canals, slowly stretching its staining fingers toward the cream-colored hallway carpet.

Tally laid down paper towels to slow the wine’s movements until she could fill a bucket and grab the mop. In moments, she had the mess cleaned up, but her guests were coming soon and she still had cooking to do, cleaning to complete and a costume to don. Now she had to go back to the store for another bottle of wine.

This time, Tally managed to hole onto the bag and the wine survived to party time. It sat on the tableclothed card table all night, waiting to be opened and enjoyed.

And no one drank the wine.