Sunday, May 29, 2005

My Today + NEW Excerpt of DDIW

today was cool. went to my mom's "friend's" house for a bbq. great food. nice conversation with the guy though i have to say i have a lot to learn in trying to decipher his thick, cajun accent. but it's all good. i couldn't help but to be VERY happy for my mom because i realized today, just by seeing her lotion and deoderant in the bathroom and the way she worked in the kitchen like she owned it that she was happy...that she found a space to breathe in. i don't think i have ever felt that content and just geniune happy before. it struck me, as it often does, how it doesn't take much to make one happy. my mother's happiness moved me today.


N.E.way-->i'm off to work on finishing my outline to the new story. as a treat, i offer you a new excerpt to DDIW. first, here's a brief synopsis of what the story is about:

Mystery novelists and twins, Jovan Parham-Anderson and Cheyenne Parham are young, beautiful, talented, and on their way to their sixth best-selling novel; that is, until Jovan learns her husband, Cordell Anderson, founder of Anderson Technologies, is having an affair with vice president, Alisha Stewart. Before Jovan can get upset about it, she finds Cordell dead in their bedroom, and evidence is mounting against her and her hotheaded twin. Despite homicide detective, Ian Davenport’s insistence that the girls stay out of it, Jo and Chey are determined to clear their names before they’re wrongfully accused…or the killer comes after them.


NOW...the new excerpt. this is the beginning of chapter one. have fun. leave a comment if you like.


CHAPTER ONE


Jovan Parham Anderson gripped the wrinkled silk sheets and gritted her teeth as her husband thrust himself into her.

“Relax, Jo,” Cordell whispered. “Stop being so uptight.”

Jovan closed her eyes as they began to well up with tears.

Relax? she thought. You bastard.

She sucked in a deep breath as Cordell’s hands took hold of her breasts and tweaked her nipples. A move that would have normally excited her made her stomach lurch.

Jovan moved her arms around to Cordell’s back and dug her nails deep.

“That’s it,” he grunted in her ear. “Hurt me, baby.”

Cordell grabbed Jovan’s full hips and rammed into her, causing her to cry out.

“Yes.” He groaned.

“Cordell,” Jovan said, panting, “you’re hurting me. Slow down.”

Jovan pressed her hands against Cordell’s chest, but he hunkered down and pumped ferociously inside her.

“Stop,” Jovan yelled.

A deep rumbling sound erupted from Cordell’s mouth, and Jovan knew he was about to orgasm. He lowered his head and took one of Jovan’s nipples into his mouth. He nipped it.
Jovan yelped and began hitting Cordell in the face.

“Stop, Cordell,” she said. “Please, you’re hurting me.”

In a flash, Cordell had Jovan’s hands above her head; he never lost his deep, quick rhythm inside her.

“Don’t you ever hit me again,” he said in a low voice.

Jovan’s eyes widened and tears leaked from them, sliding down into her ears.

She watched as Cordell’s eyes rolled up into his head. He bit his lower lip.

“Unh,” he moaned. “I’m there.”

He pushed himself as far into Jovan as he could as he moans overshadowed Jovan’s screams.

He fell upon Jovan and for several moments, the only thing that could be heard was Cordell’s heavy breathing and Jovan’s whimpers.

“For God’s sakes,” Cordell said, “stop your crying.” He rolled over and placed his feet on the floor. “You do your womanly duties, and I wouldn’t have to stay all pent up and act like this.”

“I asked you to stop, Cordell,” Jovan said. She opened her eyes and stared at Cordell’s smooth, brown back. “You come in here past one in the morning, frustrated over work to hear you say, and think you can just take me when you want to?”

The sirens from police cars silenced their argument, temporarily.

Cordell jumped from the bed and spun around. “Jo, stop being a bitch and get over it. You’re my wife, right?”

Jovan stared for a while before nodding.

“Get over it,” he repeated. He snatched his black slacks off the back of the chair that sat in the corner of the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Jovan asked.

“Going out,” Cordell replied.

Jovan looked at the clock. “It’s barely six in the morning.”

“I need air.”

“You haven’t been here but a few hours.”

“What did I just say?”

Jovan stared at Cordell, the man she had vowed to love. The man who had just taken her though she cried for him to stop.

Air, she thought. In the past, she had doubts about Cordell. Did he lie? Did he cheat? Did he still love her?

But now, in the bedroom, sex lingering in the air, Jovan knew he was going for more than air.

“Hmm,” Jovan whispered.

“Got a problem with that?” Cordell asked. When Jovan didn’t respond, he slid his shirt on and stepped into a pair of Nike Air. As he swiped his wallet off his nightstand, he turned to Jovan and added, “Clean up the bed.”

Jovan watched him leave and then looked down. Spots of blood dotted the otherwise snow-white sheet.

*

“That son of a bitch,” Jovan said as she walked the sheets to the laundry room to wash. Her normally spry, hip-twisting walk became an open-legged shuffle as she walked downstairs.

In the kitchen, Jovan began a pot of coffee and poured herself a cup when it was done. She made it into the living room, sat gingerly on the sofa, and turned on the TV. Thin light from the early morning sun broke through the window shades.

She channel-surfed until what looked like the house two houses down from hers appeared on the screen—The Brockman’s. A marquee scrolled across the screen, April 15—Breaking News. The camera panned across the street to a house surrounded by police cars, black Cadillacs, and an ambulance.

“No,” Jovan said as she scanned the screen. She saw LIVE in the corner of the screen and immediately put down her coffee and walked as fast as she could out the door. All her neighbors were out in their yards, dressed in their nightclothes.

She walked across the lawn to her next-door neighbor, a short, portly judge who was known in the neighborhood as the enforcer. The neighborhood was far too upscale for such a person, but it always brought a chuckle to the judge when someone called him that.

“Judge Williams,” Jovan said, “what’s going on?”

Judge Williams pushed his glasses up his beak of a nose and coughed.

“From what I gather,” he said, “someone broke into the Brockman home.”

“That’s the third break-in this month,” Jovan said.

“I know.”

“Why the ambulance?”

Judge Williams lowered his head.

“Who?” Jovan asked, her breath quickening.

“Sarah.”

Jovan crumbled to the ground. Judge Williams knelt, took her in his arms, and allowed her to cry.

“I just talked to her yesterday,” Jovan said. “She can’t be dead.”

Judge Williams kissed the top of Jovan’s curly brown mane and sighed. “They have an alarm system that can wake the dead. How the hell this killer get inside the house and no one hear it?”

Slowly, Jovan stood and brushed off her bottom. She wrapped her arms around her. “I’m guessing there are no suspects?” she asked.

Judge Williams shook his head. “I’m thinking inside job.”

Jovan faced him. “Come on, now. You calling Mark a murderer? I mean everyone in the neighborhood figured he was sniffing up under skirts, but killing Sarah? I don’t see it.”

“Hon,” Judge Williams said, “that’s because despite what you write about, your mind is very idyllic. You don’t want to think there’s a world where husbands kill wives over things as little as infidelity.”

Jovan shivered. Questions of her own husband’s infidelity swirled inside her head.

“I guess I do sometimes,” Jovan mused. “Nothing wrong with being idyllic.”

“No, but it sure makes it tougher to deal with things like that.”

The two watched as Sarah’s body was brought out of the house in a body bag. A somber Mark walked behind the gurney.

“Sarah told me Mark was out of town,” Jovan said.

“He came back a few hours ago on the red eye from California. He found her.”

Mark looked up and noticed Jovan and the judge. Jovan wanted to yell out that she was sorry. She wanted to run up and hug Mark. Instead, she offered a slight smile and her hand over her heart.

She shook her head, turned, and rushed back toward her home. Before entering, she ventured one last glance toward the Brockman’s. In the sea of detectives, paramedics and lookers-on, Jovan noticed Cordell. She watched him step away from the scene and walk down the street.

“Where’s he going?” she asked. She shut the door behind her.

She didn’t give herself time to worry about that.

Sarah was dead. The person she had monthly lunch dates with, the person she complained about Cordell to was dead. Sarah and Mark were the very first people to welcome Cordell and
Jovan into the neighborhood. Sarah, being a good ten years older than Jovan, often advised Jovan in what not to do in her marriage. Sarah knew what it was like to live with a powerful, bull-headed man. She knew what it was like to question her husband’s fidelity.

Jovan slid to the floor and rested her back against the front door.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, wiping tears from her face. “You didn’t deserve this, Sarah.”

Just last week, during their lunch break, Sarah told Jovan she was close to finding proof about Mark’s affair.

“When I saw the e-mail,” Sarah had said, “I read between the lines. Something’s going on. I just need more time to figure out what.”

Sarah’s time was out. Jovan refused to let her time run out before learning what was going on with Cordell.

Jovan stood and took a breath. “What a morning,” she mumbled. She hugged herself tight. “Let’s see if I can make this day worse.”With reluctance yet a strong determination, Jovan walked toward Cordell’s office, hoping to be proven wrong about her suspicions.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

VERY LATE NIGHTS

fyi: those looking for sneak peek of my mystery novel, it's the post below!

I want to first say thank you to all who have e-mailed me about the sneak peek or about my blog. It means a lot to me.


I have about two more days of LATE NIGHTS. I start teaching again on Wednesday, and I will have to get up at 5:15 so I can catch the 6:30 bus and be at school to teach at 7:30 in the morning. I'm like, LORD, why did I do this to myself. My body is already in SUMMER mode. This is really the only time I can write, and I make use of all 24 hours in a day. The last week, I haven' t been going to bed until like 5 in the morning. I didn't go to bed until 7:30 this morning, working on an outline for a new book.

I'm slowly trying to put some things in perspective in my life. I do A LOT of things. If I want to excel at something, I am going to have to scale back some things. I want I.T.S. to do well because I think ultimately, the company will be that "cushion" I need to not worry so much about $$$. I want to write and get paid for it. It's hard to know that what you think you were put on the Earth to do you can't do unless you want to live on the street and bum quarters from passersby. I love editing and helping others achieve their success; I just need to finesse how I do that AND get paid for it.

N.E.WAY--> The other day, I fixed the manuscript, the synopsis, the query, and worked on a proposal for another novel of mine: Running from Miss Right. It's been hard to sell because the main character is a black female who is questioning her sexuality. That, and it has a "Friends" like quality to it, and for some reason, it's hard for people to believe that blacks, whites, Asians, Puerto Ricans, etc., actually do get along sometimes and can be friends. RFMR truly is, in my opinion, my best work to date. (note: I do plan to put an excerpt from RFMR up in the next few days :: stay tuned!!) I have other books that are either fully written or almost complete; however, RFMR and DDIW are the two I'm working on getting published now.

I've had a new idea for a book in my head for about two weeks, and last night, I stayed up working on the outline, getting characters' names, figuring out looks of people--I like to find actors who kinda look like my characters. Part of it is wishful thinking (book turned major motion picture! LOL), and part of it is it's just easy to help me get the characters fleshed out in my mind. Over the next 30 days, you will hear a lot about this book because it's a project I think would sell (and probably before DDIW and RFMR) and it's a challenge to myself to get a book written and fast and to edit/revise/push like hell.

I'm giving myself two pre-writing days (today and tomorrow) to finish a brief outline, get my hook written, and plot out some writing time, and then starting Monday, I will devote time each day to writing the book. I'll chronicle some of my successes and failures here, along with my other, normal rants, LOL

Since school let out, I've actually had time to read. Here are some I've read and are GREAT! I would definitely suggest you pick them up:

>>Jane Porter's The Frog Prince

>>Lauren Baratz-Logsted's The Thin Pink Line and Crossing the Line

>>Ursula Ingo Kindred & Mirranda Guerin-Williams' Mister Gumbo: Down and Dirty with Black Men on Life, Sex, and Relationships

>>(great children's book) :: Leonard 'CRUZE' Webb's My Name is Corinthia

Til Next Time...

Friday, May 27, 2005

FINISHED EDITS---SNEAK PEEK OF MYSTERY NOVEL

Hi all,

I've finished edits of my novel. I never gave the name, so I'll tell you now: Death at the Double Inkwell. It's now 81,000 words. I added an additional 6,000 words during my edits/revisions. I really think I've done something good for the book; however, I can't help but feel like I ruined the book. One thing you have to know about me which I'm sure you already grasped onto: I tend to think negatively. So now I have a tough book, I have a clean, tighter synopsis and query letter, and me and my friend T are about 75% through a proposal for the book. We want to show that there is a PLACE for this book amongst mainstream mystery novels.

Because I am happy that I've finished the edits and because there have been some who have trekked through my blog and read my angst over this book, below is an excerpt from the book. Wish me luck in the pursuit of publishing this. I will let you know the outcome. I may actually publish a few more excerpts here from time to time until that most wondrous day! :-)

=====

(PROLOGUE)


“A RUDE AWAKENING”


Like most Monday nights, Sarah Brockman found herself in bed alone. She stretched, twisted and turned, trying to find the right spot to sleep in since she didn’t have her husband as her buffer.

After ten minutes of wriggling around, Sarah sat up.

Her husband was off, as usual, in Cleveland or Chicago, New York or L.A. Some place other than there. Attending to business, he always said. Probably to get back at me, Sarah thought. Since her own stepping out, Sarah had long wondered if Mark’s business came in the short/petite or Amazonian/statuesque variety.

She hated him for leaving her in that big house alone though her pushing him away didn’t help the matter. She just hated the weird creaks and moans of the house settling. At least once a night, she reached over to her nightstand for the mace or the steak knife she kept there. Her husband called her paranoid. She preferred the term cautious.

Sarah ran her fingers through her pale, gold hair before finally falling back onto the mattress and closing her eyes.

“Just fall asleep,” she whispered. She grabbed her husband’s pillows from his side of the bed and pressed them close to her, digging her slender fingers into the pillowcase.

The shattering of glass startled Sarah. She leapt from the bed and immediately reached for her knife, the mace, and the phone on the nightstand. She raced into the walk-in closet and sat on the floor. Her fingers shook, but she managed to hit ‘Talk’ on the phone. No dial tone. Tears streamed down her sun-kissed cheeks. Clothes, swaying on their hangers brushed her shoulders. Through the thin slats on the bottom half of the door, Sarah saw the grayness of the room.

“God, please, don’t let this person hurt me,” she whispered up through her clothes, hoping her message reached heaven.

Even from the closet, Sarah heard the soft whoosh of the bedroom door being opened. She rubbed her stomach and swallowed down a lump of vomit and a scream.

Sarah breathed into the phone, wishing there was someone on the other end to help her.

Through the slats, Sarah saw the shades of darkness change in the bedroom from a dark gray to black. She knew the intruder was inches from her.

Her fingers itched to hold onto her rosary and pray. She needed something or some higher being to tell her that she was going to be okay because she didn’t believe it.

Amidst the silence and the fear, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder why the alarm didn’t go off.

The door opened and Sarah screamed as she stared into the barrel of a gun.

The mace, the knife, and the phone slid from her hand.

For at least a minute, they stared each other down. Sarah saw nothing but black—the intruder’s black clothing, gloves, mask, scully cap, gun.

But it was the eyes. They were big and brown and full of menace. She could have sworn she had seen them before, but no one in her life was ever this full of hate.

“Please,” she said, “you can have anything you want, just please don’t hurt me. Please, I’m expecting…”

The intruder grunted. “This ain’t even about you, bitch,” he interrupted. He then laughed, the sound so chilling, Sarah closed her eyes tight to keep from seeing one who could be so evil.

“My sweet Sarah,” the intruder said.

Sarah’s face slackened. She recognized the voice. She never opened her eyes again.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Trudging Through Life

I'm stressed as all get out. I'm about 3 seconds away from "testing" prostitution as a mean to get some funds...and I don't think I'd made a good hooker.

I get paid next week, but that money (and then some) is already spent for late bills. My school loans have kicked in, but I don't have the money to pay for them. I'm actually considering going back to school sooner than later so that I can hold off on paying my loans. Doing that will take me away from my writing, and that would defeat the purpose of me taking time off from school.

What I need is a roommate that can afford to pay half of everything. My sister is living with me, and I adore her and love her, but she's not working, hasn't worked, and so basically I'm doing everything I can to pay my bills and to help my mother. This is the first time in almost four years where I feel I am 100% broke and have nothing. Even when I was only making $9,000 a year as a grad teacher (2001-2004), I somehow made it stretch. I think for the most part that's because I was the only one here for 2 of those 3 years, and now I'm not. Now I'm helping me and my mom. And I'm trying to do this with a job that pays me nothing and yet asks me to teach 5 composition courses a semester, among other school-related activities.

It's made this semester very stressful for me. Oh, how I miss Paxil and Buspar!

About 3 years ago, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. I think I've always been a depressed person, but I was action-oriented and having action and doing things and accomplishing my goals made me not THINK about the depression. I got here to Louisiana, and all hell broke loose. Three years, 80-100 counseling sessions, two prescriptions later, I decided to stop taking my meds. This was last October. I didn't want to be dependent on pills. I was young, well, if you call 32 young. I meditated, I read the Bible, I used the inner Shonell to constantly review everything I said, did, or thought, so I could change the negative thoughts. It worked, for the most part, and I was proud of myself for working through my issues naturally.

Then 2005 came. My mom and younger bro moved here. My sis still lives with me. My best friend and her kids moved down. We had become a family, working together to help out, make sure everyone was doing okay. For the last three months of 2004, everyone lived in my apartment. It was crowded, but we were happy. Everyone moved into their own places in January 2005, and other things happened, and it horrifically rocked my world. I have battled very hard this semester to keep from "going under" and I made it to the end of the semester fairly bruised up but still breathing. As soon as the semester ended, my mentality switch flipped to insanity, and I've been dangerously depressed. I worked so hard to keep from being depressed and now when I actually have time to sleep in or write, I have had time to THINK, and thinking has brought up all the pain I've felt this semester, all the wondering of what I'm suppose to do with my life, who I'm suppose to be, learning to make myself happy and not worry what others think about my decisions, wondering if I can even be a good judge for what it IS I may want to do with my life.

There I was, thinking that many of my darkest days were over, that maybe God had decided that I needed to be relatively happy for a while. I trusted the feeling in my heart that told me I would be okay, and I shouldn't have. I should have kept taking my meds, kept building drugs inside my body to help me make it through this often wretched thing we call life. But I didn't.

And so now all I have is ME to help me through all of this. My counselor, the woman who knows ALL my dirty secrets...the ONLY person on the planet is 'truly' knows the most about my inner thoughts has gone to private practice. There is no one else in my life to talk to. I love my mother. Adore my sister. Cherish my best friend. Don't know why I can't talk to them, but I don't. I think the biggest reason is because it doesn't help. Okay. So I let out my feelings. You know what? They are STILL inside of me and talking about them just makes them BIGGER and more painful to deal with.

I've been thinking about getting a second job because I don't think I'll make it unless I have more money. Of course, a second job will mean I will have no time to write, will have no chance of getting published. If that was the case, I should have just applied to Ph.D. programs and started in the fall like I had originally planned.

Nope. I always have to make it difficult for myself. Life wouldn't be funny without the bumps and bruises, without the ups and downs (way more downs than ups), without the surprise (good and more often than not, BAD).

You know...I've never been a person who was big on money. I didn't care about fashion. I didn't care about keeping up with the Joneses. I just wanted to be able to maintain and hopefully, someday, be able to help my mother buy the house she always wanted.

Over the last few years, I have realized that life IS money. People say money is the root of all evil. To a certain extent, I would agree. Without it, you can't really "have" anything. Yes, you can have love. You can even have your loved ones, but can you have your home to live in? Can you have your food to eat? Can you have your gas for your car? Your clothes to wear? Your books for school? Your glasses to see? Your TP to wipe your ass with? I think you get my point. We do need money. And because, for most of my life, I've been a person with very limited resources, and because I'm starting not to believe that if I have faith and patience and love and take care for everyone and do everything I can to succeed (in the right way of course) someday God may bless me, I HUNGER for money now.

Almost everything out of my mouth is about money. Whether it's to pay for my rent. My phone (and now I have no long distance because of a late bill). My mom's monthly furniture payments (people need something to sleep on sometimes). My food. Mom's food (it's good to eat unless you like the hot anorexic look that's sweeping H-wood these days). My postage for submissions. My ink cartridges. My cable and internet (how else can I vent my pitiful existence without it?). Even my most frivolous expense: chocolate caramel lattes at Joe Muggs.

I've been tempted to just go. Where? Who knows. Somewhere where I can get back to the basics. To need the very bare necessities and to live off the land, or to live in a cave. Something that's NOT this. But I can't. I'm too entrenched, too threaded into the fabric of this whole world. Besides, I'm sure the Sallie Mae Mafia would be after my ass to collect my school loans. What can I say? They made me a financial offer I couldn't refuse and now, years later, they want to collect on the debt. I just hope I don't end up sleeping with the fishes.

Monday, May 16, 2005

How Reality TV, Uninventing Old Shows, and "In" Writing are Destroying My Subsistent Writing Career

That's right. I said it. So what you gonna do about it?



Last night, I was trying to get through my goal of editing 50 pages of my mystery novel while bawling over Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Before I go on my rant, I have to say that EM is probably one of the best "reality" shows on TV today. It actually DOES something other than being on and making asses out of people.



Anyway, I'm editing, watching, and then this commercial comes on for this new reality show; I think it's called something like DANCING WITH THE STARS. The premise is this: they will pair stars with professional dancers, teach the stars how to dance, and then the star-dancer couples will compete and a panel of judges and YOU-AMERICA! will vote for the best pair.



I stopped writing. I could barely move. My already downtrodden mood was brought to the brink of Hell depths. I happened to be on AOL IM with my best friend, a great publicist and all around great gal, and I told her, "Reality TV and bad writing are going to destroy my career, the one I never really had in the first place."



Well, she gets livid with me, as she always does, but I stand firm. I've been trying this TRYING TO GET PUBLISHED game for 10 years now. Got the lovely rejection wallpaper from a new Ralph Lauren collection to prove it. I've written, every day, for years. Bought all the books, sent queries and synopses and sample chapters, sent full scripts, packed up the rejections. I try to be eclectic, writing novels in several genres: mainstream, mystery, chick lit, lesbian, erotica, etc. I hone my craft by going into an MFA program and coming out of it with respect from my peers, my professors and others who have read my kick-ass thesis--now being called a novel. I have helped NUMEROUS people in their writing careers by editing their work, or by reading a scene, or by making a suggestion, or by teaching them the basic elements of writing, or by teaching them grammar. I have seen some of these people grab agents and even get books published and yet mine still rot in my laptop.



For years, I kept believing my time would come, and then last year, and editor made a comment that pulled together some "twinges" of thoughts I had been having about why I might not be getting published. The editor said that a novel of mine--I call it chick lit with a sexual twist, was greatly written. Had great characters, wonderful dialogue; it was funny and touching all at the same time; however, black people wouldn't read it. It wasn't what was IN for the black reading audience. So, the editor asked, "Does she (meaning me) write urban fiction?"



A few things are hugely wrong with this. One, I like to think of myself as a life writer. I write about universal things; yes, my main characters are typically black; however, many of the things my characters go through PEOPLE go through. Two, my stories are very multicultural. My characters do not live in a utopian society where there are just black people everywhere. That's not realistic, so why would I do that to my characters? Three, why would this person ask the question if I write urban fiction when clearly, looking at my story, one could probably guess that I don't write it? And why must all African American fiction be summed up by ONE genre?



I'm not knocking urban/street/hip hop fiction; in fact, I just edited several novels for a publishing house that are street novels, and I loved them. I just believe that the publishing industry needs to expand its vision on what is AA fiction and what can or can't be sold. But that's a problem with media in general. It finds something that's popular and hot, and it grabs that thing and molests it better than any Law & Order: SVU episode could EVER do.



Street is hot--therefore, ghettoizing the black life (with no examples of the multi-faceted life that is the black experience) is the IN thing to do. I have had some "street life," but that is not all that I am. We got enough books coming out for this genre...why not let us flood up the horror genre, the chick lit genre, the literary genre, the sci-fi genre? Believe me, there is a way to market everything to get America to jump on its bandwagon, so the old adage "There is no audience for this type of work" just ain't cutting it anymore.



Just like street is hot, so too is reality TV. You can't turn on the TV without seeing something crazy on TV. We have a flood of SURVIVOR-like shows. Bachelor. Fear Factor. I Married a Princess. Sheer Dallas. The Swan. Basically, we as Americans are being taught that if we eat bull's balls, that if we are ugly, that if we want to fall in love, we can become something better, whether that's by winning $50,000, getting enough plastic surgery to make millions of Barbie dolls, or finding our one true love by narrowing "the one" down from 25 possible suitors within two months or so.



Where is the creativity in reality TV? The concepts are interesting and with my belief that reality TV isn't even REAL, I will concede that there is creativity in the process.



However, what's the point of writing a fresh, new novel, or an innovative movie or TV show script if what's HOT is fake reality, rehashing of old shows (A "Dukes of Hazzard" movie?!?!?!?), and putting writers in a box?



Even Chick Lit, which could have falling to the wayside if it had stuck solely with the BRIDGET JONES' type of novels, realized that the heroines of their books could be put into a variety of situations and genres.



*major sigh* I guess this rant is just my way of saying, I have a voice. I think it's a good voice. I think it deserves to be heard...in its own way and not prepackaged to fit my color, fit the fake, or fit someone else's already done story.

Just Another Manic Monday

Yeah, I like the Bangles...so what? And also, it HAS been a manic Monday. Was beYOND pissed this morning because I actually had to get up and go to school. Why? Well, grades were due today by 10am. I had all 107 grades in except for ONE student who was having computer troubles. *sigh* Me, being the kind hearted person I am. Me, being the LOSER that I am, said okay and allowed her to turn in this assignment over the weekend, which meant I had to come in and grade it and post her grade. Didn't do much good in the end, but oh well. Now, I need to get my gradebook and grades over to my supervisor, and then--officially, I'm done for the spring semester.

I should be happy and yet I'm not. Why? Because in June, I start a summer course for six weeks, every day, Monday through Friday, from 7:30 to 10:30. That means I will have to get up at 5:15am, Monday through Friday, during the summer, so I can be fresh faced and ready to teach at 7:30. I cannot tell you how ready I am to have all of THIS be over. What's this? Manic working at low pay and busting my ass to do well yet struggling to make my ends ALMOST meet. It's insane.

Anyway, another post coming in a second. It deserves its own RANTING TITLE.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Frustration + Inspiration

I had a day off! It's finals week, and I didn't have any exams to give today. Instead of going to school and reading the outlines for tomorrow, I decided to stay home, do some editing and just go in early tomorrow morning before my first exam to read through the outlines.

I've gotten some editing done, and I graded about 15, 102 web finals. They were pretty good; however, I did get an e-mail from a student who didn't "mean to sound difficult" but wanted to know why I took off for parenthetical citations on her last two assignments but not on the first. I clearly DID take off for the first essay and despite that, I sent at least 15 e-mails this semester, discussing the SAME thing...sources must be INTRODUCED and they must be PARENTHETICALLY CITED. I'm on FIRE right now with my anger over this. I have bent over backwards, so much so I swear to God I have no bones in my body. I'm so tired of ungrateful students who do not realize that maybe, just maybe it's THEM that have the problem and not ME, the teacher. I wish they would take some freaking responsibility for their actions. I know that's a lot to wish for, but a teacher can dream, right?

*taking a breath*

ANYWAY, I've been diligently working on edits to my manuscript. I hit the 100-page mark yesterday. I'm giddy. One thing I'm hoping to do to keep this momentum going is talk to other authors, just ask a few questions, see what they think about writing, things like that. Girl talk, with a literary twist. I'm talking to a few authors now, and once I get a few nice responses back, I'm going to be placing them here for you all to view!

Maybe one of you can get inspired, too!

Back to working on manuscript.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

I stated a goal and dammit, I completed the goal! :-)

Yep, you heard it right; I gave myself a goal and I met the goal. I can't tell you how happy this has made me.

Been busy, ALL DAY, working on sending out call for submissions for TNC and SD and finding agent links for the students in my Get That Novel Published Class.

What I SHOULD have been doing is trying to edit through 30 pages of my mystery novel because that's the goal I set for myself this week with ChickLitChallenge.

Well, I finally, about an hour ago, sat down and started working on it, thinking I had SO MUCH TO DO to get my 30 pages. Well, off and on, an hour here, 30 minutes there, I had been working on it this week, so after an hour tonight, I made the goal. :-) I accomplished something, and it'll be little things like this that will pull me out of my doldrums and finally get SOMETHING done.

Back to do more editing, *smirk*

Friday, May 06, 2005

Is this the end?

No, but it's awfully damn close. Final exams are next week, so I still have to give those and grade them; however, this weekend, I am doing non-mcneese related stuff! How exciting! I even left my gradebook at school so that I wouldn't feel the urge to do something crazy.

Despite this happiness, I am a bit stressed over other things. All of them FINANCIAL. Most of them not even pertaining to MY finances. It's one of those times where there is no LIGHT at the end of the tunnel because each end has been closed off with huge boulders. I'm robbing Peter to pay Paul and shielding Mary from the travesty of it all. I don't think I have the mojo to handle the situation THIS time. I may have to concede to being a failure and having to live with it.

ALAS.

I'm just getting back from dinner with some of my best buds. We spent time together before they leave tomorrow. They're heading east for the funeral of best bud #1's wife. Since I learned of the death a few days ago, I've been thinking about all the familial death I've experienced. There's been many. The most traumatic by far were my grandparents' passings in 1998: my grandmother in August and my grandfather in December.

They left a hole in me that I know will never be filled. They were 2/3 of my heart and my sunshine. I've never been good at knowing how to act when people pass. Tomorrow, when best buds #s 1 and 2 show up to drop their dog Gabby off for me to doggysit while they're gone, I will hug them, I will tell them to have a safe trip, and I will wish them Godspeed.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Woest Me

Got a few pages in tonight. I will try for a couple more before I go to bed. Tired. Drained. Exhausted. Damn near lifeless. Just consistently praying. For what? Stability. What do you do when it seems as though you do all you can to be a better person and you pray and talk to God and ask for stability and insight, and you wind up more confused, more in the hole than ever before?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

About to Lose My Religion

I swear, I'm about five seconds away from drop kicking just about ALL of my students. I don't think I can physically read another word let alone another freaking essay. The worse thing is that the essays are trickling in from students with their barrages of excuses. It's tiresome. I think it's been about two weeks, maybe three, since I have NOT had to read an essay or a research paper. It's beyond insane. I categorically refuse to read ANYTHING by my students this weekend, so they all better get their asses in gear. Okay, *sighing*, I do have final exam outlines to read...*longingly looking at my lone cigarette that I've been holding on to for about three months* I think I'm a lost cause.

I joined the ChickLitChallenge and how much have I done this week? You got it! Not a damn thing. I feel like I need to pack up a few pieces of clothing and book to my nearest cave and just live off the land and write. It might be the only way I can get it done. In trying to survive, teaching 101 and 102 so I can have a place to live and a little bit of funds to help my mom and "others" make ends meet, I don't think I will ever be happy...or get writing done.

I think today, for some reason, has just ZAPPED me out of any sense of happiness. I just feel angry and short-changed on life.

I've had enough counseling to realize that I am to blame for most of this. I could say no, I could shut myself off and away from certain people, I could be pursuing my dreams harder, but I just feel that every time things are at a place where I can HOPE for something good to happen, the WORST, or CLOSE to WORSE thing happens.

I've been holding on to this one cigarette here for a while now. I'm not a smoker except for when I'm stressed. When I'm stressed, I can down half a pack in a few minutes. This happens once every couple of years. Back in January, I smoked enough to light and to keep burning a "few" fireplaces.

Every once in a while, I glance over at my computer desk and spot the cigarette and lighter resting between my Latin book and the DVD, Garden State.

I'm gonna stop whining. I know that's what I'm doing. Whining. Just feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I'll open up this novel and try to have a go at it.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Swollen Faces + Snotty Noses

Two weeks. Two weeks before school will be over for the semester, and it had to happen. Saturday morning, I had this horrific, sharp pain in the middle of my chest. By nightfall, my throat was sore. This morning, I woke up with my face tight, my chest thick and my throat sore and slimy. Now I sit, just finished grading about 10 essays, about to go to bed so I can teach tomorrow, and I have this soreness right behind my right ear.

I worked really hard to fight away all illnesses despite how stressful this year has been for me: physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally...(create an "-ally" and I've lived it). I should have known that now, right at the finish line, I would go tumbling mere inches from the line. Hell, two weeks ago when I fell and skinned up my arm, I should have known then.

*sigh*

Anyway, I joined a Chick Lit Writing Challenge group to jumpstart some writing. I really want to finish edits of the mystery novel and start sending that out again. I'll use the group to work on the edits.

I have some summer projects I'd like to work on...a co-authored novel, an outline of a solo work, and a co-authored screenplay.

There's so many things I want and need to do. While I'm working on the mystery novel, I will be reorganizing my submissions so that I can start sending them out and getting some feelers.

I've always been told to pray on something and put it aside. I've been praying about "making it" for so long, it feels like it will never come. Every day, somehow, I keep trying to retrain myself to believe this will happen, that my 'scripts will not just lay dormant within my laptop. I just hope that all this love for writing, all this need to put my soul onto the page will come to light and people will be able to enjoy me and my work.

For now, I will go and lay my big, swollen, stuffy, achy head down, cry, and try to get some sleep.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Waiting :: A piece of microfiction

I was going through some files tonight on my laptop while taking a break from working on this academic book. I came across this piece of microfiction. I wrote it last summer. It was one of my fave pieces of micro. Tweaked it tonight. Wanted to share.



Waiting

On the blue-reds. He said they were coming for me. Mom pitters through the house, cleaning. She doesn’t want them to see dishes piled up on the dining table. I sit at the table, fingers pounding on laptop keys. I, too, have cleaned. Washed my face. Threw a bra on. Socks and shoes. I wait. We wait. For the cops to come, to hear the whoop-whoop and see flashing blue-reds let the whole neighborhood know that there is trouble at our house again. I’m scared. Don’t show it. Everyone has hit him, at least once, except me. I’ve been away at school. Now I’m here and Father’s alcoholic, violent words scrap my brain. Hammer, he said as soon as he came home. We playing UNO. He walks in talking ‘bout hammers and putting one in my brother’s head. Go away, we say. I will kill every last one of you, he replies. He heads upstairs, screaming “Bring it!” Over and over. “Bring it!” he yells for the sixth time. So I did. All 18 years of anger, of remembered good times shadowed over by broken bad times. I brought it, to his bedroom, my fists clinging to his shirt as I shook him. My hand across his face. Twice. I felt liberated. Ashamed. The hits told him he didn’t have control over me anymore. Yet he is/was my father. Big me is glad I hit him, let him see the pain he’s caused me. Little me crawls in a corner and cries for what my father has become. For what, as a result, I have become. And so I wait on the blue-reds ‘cause I feel I deserve the punishment.