It started simply enough... I was minding my own business... sitting at my desk and working diligently... when I noticed that a truck in the parking lot was making a turn around maneuver that brought it dangerously close to my car. 

Then I heard it.  Despite the plate glass door that separated me from the actual scene of the crime, I heard the distinct sound of virgin fiberglass being rendered paint-free by an offending bumper. 

I was out of my seat and into the parking lot faster than a Phoenix cop into a donut shop (see next offense) and discovered that my ears had rung true.  My poor little car now had a boo boo on its backside, thanks to Mr. I'll-just-use-my-mirrors-to-back-up-even-though-they-LIE!!!!-poor-old-dude-with-a-cane.

We exchanged the appropriate info (so I thought) and he left the scene of the crime.  Come to find out, Old Dude (who walks with a CANE!!!!!), gave me the wrong insurance info and I had a very hairy 24 hours wondering if I was screwed out of the cosmetic damages to the ass end of my car.

All's well that ends well (so far) with that situation.  He brought me correct info the next day and the claims adjuster paid me a visit yesterday.  Funny how I scratch my own rear-end and a 5 dollar tube of Neosporin takes care of it.  This boo boo on my car's rear-end is going to cost approximately $900 bucks.

Lucky me.

That aside, I'd pretty much accepted my fate and moved onto other things, like my impending 34th birthday, when, LO AND BEHOLD, I go to get the mail a few days later and discover that I'm the lucky recipient of a PHOTOGRAPHIC SPEEDING TICKET from Phoenix!!!!!  Apparently, to be the winner of such a lucrative prize, you must be going no less than 11 MPH above the posted speed limit, and possess out of state plates.  I'm now of the understanding that the traffic enforcement officers in AZ are spending entirely too much time in the local donut shops and therefore, the state decided to install these nifty cameras to make up for the lack of patrol vehicles on the I-10. 

Lucky me.

And... if that just doesn't top it off, this morning, as I struggled into the car adorned in my usual office attire; that being whatever I threw on plus my fuzzy leopard print slippers;  the rear view mirror of my car jumped headlong off of my windshield and right at my face!

Yes, dear readers, my car attacked me!!!!!

Therefore, I feel the overbearing need to either torch it in the desert and collect the insurance money, or go to my nearest  Subaru dealership and trade it in on a brand new Forester.

Decisions, decisions, but I will not take such betrayals lightly.

My car sucks, and needs to die.

...but I made a valiant effort.

And so, with 35,280 words written, you can understand why I'm blogging instead of trying to cram the 14,720 words that I need to write into the hour and a half I have left of November.

The fact of the matter is, I have written 35,280 words more than on any writing project, short of a blog entry, that I've attempted in years. Not to mention, this project has been hitting too close to home for comfort since I started it. I do plan on finishing the novel that I so enthusiastically jumped into on November 1st, and I plan on finishing it with 100,000 words, not the mere 50K that NaNoWriMo.org requires of its participants.

I'm also setting a new deadline, that being December 31st.

So, after spending a month writing in frantic spurts and chanting the mantra "quantity over quality" repeatedly as I resisted the urge to delete the whole crappy thing, I've come to a few realizations.

1. Characters are not going to do what you tell them to do. They are going to do what they want to do, period. End of story. I went into this thing full throttle, flying mostly by the seat of my pants, with only one solid character. The rest of the characters sort of appeared out of nowhere, and then proceeded to dictate what happened, despite the rough synopsis that I had, and later, the even rougher outline that I had come up with. Some of the most recent plot twists have me scratching my head in confusion, but the characters said that's what happened, so, I have to go with it.

2. Writing about something you've experienced, even on a fictional level, is hard. Especially with my subject matter. My protagonist is a battered woman, and having been a victim of domestic violence, I've had to relive some excruciating experiences this last month. It helps that the MC is getting to take care of her problems in ways that I only wish that I could have, that being putting her abusive, drunkard, cheating husband out of her misery and then finding a creative way to dispose of his body. But still... not my idea of a trip to Disney World.

3. Research is indeed a writer's best friend. More specifically, Google. Go ahead and look up such things as "roadkill composting" and then find yourself an article on the forensics of an accident involving a wood chipper, and you will understand exactly what I mean.

4. Quantity over quality is the only way to write a first draft. I've been itching to go back and edit, to fix things, fill in plot holes and flesh out characters, but I won't do it. Not until I have a finished rough draft that I can rip to pieces later on. I need to get this story out, and the only way to do that is to vomit massive quantities of words out of my brain and into the computer until there aren't any words left.

5. Setting goals is important. Having a daily word count quota kept me motivated on most days this month. True, it also caused me to slack off, but life gets in the way sometimes, no matter how much we plan in advance.

That being said, whoever decided that National Novel Writing Month should take place in November should have their head examined.

Duh... Thanksgiving? I spent the day before and the Sunday after in a car driving my ass to my mother's for the holiday and then back home. A drive that ate up 14 hours and 14.5 hours respectively each way. Not to mention the three days spent with family that I don't see every day. How rude is that, to hole yourself up in the guest room and spend hours writing?

I'm not making excuses for that, and I shouldn't have to.

So, lessons learned, new goals set, and at the end of December I will have something that I can build on.

That is, if Christmas and New Year's Eve don't get in the way.

And, incidentally, I have one last good reason for not writing while I was away:



Because getting drunk and making an ass of yourself in the company of family is important, too.


This entry was cross-posted to my LiveJournal here.

Never let it be said that I'm not a glutton for punishment.

I needed the extra cash and opportunity came knocking, so I agreed to take on some shifts at the liquor store, my ex-nemesis Saturday night hell job.

It was a mutual thing. The owner didn't need to slap me with a pair of training wheels, and I get a 10 percent discount on whatever I buy on the nights that I work. I scratch her back, she scratches mine. Cash under the table doesn't hurt, either.

The first shift back was a novel experience. I was met with a lot of "where have you been?" and "good to see you!" and "are you back for good?" from lots of people. Considering the fact that it's been over a year since I worked there, I was flattered. Considering the fact that people were griping on and off because I was grumpy before I left, I was shocked.

And thus began my series of "Special Guest Appearances", otherwise known as my reminder of why I quit working there in the first place.

Tomorrow night, thankfully, marks the series finale for me.

Highlights from the previous four shifts include aching feet, sore arms, bitchy customers, and the growing need to visit my chiropractor.

Last weekend, a guy got pissy with me over a penny. "C'mon... don't nickle and dime me to death!" he griped, because the register read $8.81 and the packs of cigarettes he was buying would have individually rang up at $4.40. Seriously, asshole? You are getting upset over a fucking penny?!?

Tonight took the cake, though. A guy at the drive up window shoved his hand into his pocket to dig for correct change, and made the offhanded comment "That felt good." My expression must have said it all, because when I came back to the window from the register, he said, "I wasn't trying to be gross. I was just trying to see if you have a good sense of humor."

Not to be outdone, I handed him his change, saying, "Here's your change, then. Now you can feel good twice!"

Yeah... I'm glad tomorrow night is my final "Special Guest Appearance".

----------------
Listening to: Jane's Addiction - Stop!

I have a confession to make.

I'm going to miss Michael Jackson.

To paraphrase a quote from www.twitter.com heard at the end of his memorial service yesterday, which the media of course swarmed with their usual sensationalist fervor, "his music has provided part of the soundtrack of my life. It has been there through every decade. What am I going to do now that he is gone?"

The very first (and last - vinyl was in it's death throes even in the early 80's) record album I ever received as a gift was "Thriller". My parents bought it for me for my birthday, probably third grade, which would have been 1983, a whole year after it had been released. I was all of 8 years old.

I still have it.

And I confess that I recently pulled it out and put it on my decrepit excuse for a turntable for the first time in years. And I listened to it, even though the belt played it a degree slower than it should have, and I relived all of those silly childhood afternoons when I would beg my mom to let me play it so I could dance to Beat It, PYT, and Thriller; sing along to Human Nature and The Girl is Mine; clumsily moonwalk to Billie Jean.

And I cried.

I cried not just for the loss of Michael Jackson, I cried for the loss of my childhood.

I cried for the memories of my grandmother, who I lost the same year I got "Thriller" for my birthday.

I cried for all of those safe, secure nights of watching Solid Gold on Saturday night in my parents living room, and all of the memories that those songs hold for me, because they were the soundtrack of my childhood.

And the man who provided that is gone.

For the first time, my generation is facing the loss of an icon who has been there since we were born, and I don't doubt that I'm not the only Generation X'er out there who is struggling with what it means on a more personal level.

It means that eventually we all must face our own mortality, and question what sort of legacy we will leave behind when we are gone.

What sort of legacy will I leave behind? I don't know, but I ultimately hope that people will remember me for the positive and set aside the negative, just as I hope that they do for Michael Jackson, because in the end, the good that we do during our brief time in this existence is what truly counts.

Hello there, campers!

I'm sorry to report that the Muse is still MIA, but thanks to a healthy dose of alcohol, I'm here to post something resembling a blog.

About Swine Flu.

Because I'm paranoid.

And drunk.

And being followed by Randall Flagg on Twitter.

That's right, you heard me correctly. There is a new phenomenon growing on the interweb's latest craze... The Stand is being role-played on Twitter, and it is seriously starting to creep my ass out.

It started with MacAllister Stone of Absolute Write fame tweeting about @motherabigail, who I decided to follow out of curiousity's sake. Little did I know that I would wake up to @VegasWalkinDude "following" me.

And now I've fallen down the rabbit hole into an alternate dimension.

Not withstanding, I have to get on a plane in 21 days to attend my younger brother's high school graduation. Not withstanding that the global pandemic threat level has hit 5, two higher than it was last week.

What the crap?

Srsly?

I mean, come on!

I'm not one to buy into conspiracy theories, but I do question everything, and the very presence of a virus that seems to have all of the inherent qualities of something that was genetically engineered to wreak havoc on the world as we know it has got my subconscious in an uproar. Never mind the fact that over 250,000 deaths each year are attributed to seasonal flu. Never mind the fact that ALL of the deaths so far, even the one in the US today, have been Mexican nationals. Never mind the fact that the death toll out of the thousands of cases numbers less than 200 so far...

Something is afoot, my friends....

And something about all of this makes me want to take my ass off of the grid and hide up on the Grand Mesa until next year.

Who's with me?

Is why I'm enjoying being on Twitter these days.  Miniature blogging is my new favorite sport! 

http://twitter.com/evilmynx

In other news, yes, the Muse did indeed get arrested.  It called me from a Mexican prison today demanding bailout money.  Too bad I didn't know sooner, or I could have put in a request for some of those billions that the government keeps throwing at our failing economy. 

I'm sure bailing out my Muse is probably money better spent.

Dear Lady Marie™:

Okay, so here is our scenario:
There is this guy I know. Out of freak coincidence, he happens across an email address for a girl he knew 20 years in the past.(He went out with said girl for about 3 weeks.) For shits and giggles he sends her an email. They kind of reconnect through IM. They go over old times and how she has been happily married for 18 years. Out of the blue, she asks him why he broke off the relationship. She then tells him she still has the letter he wrote her telling her it was over in her Bible.

Creepy?

Sincerely,
A Concerned Bystander

Dear Concerned:

Beyond creepy... the normal thing to do with that sort of letter is to immediately collect any photos, mix tapes, articles of clothing, letters, etc. associated with the person who sent it, take the collection to the back yard, dump 5 gallons of gas on said collection, and dance naked around the flames. Whoa... wait... the naked dancing around the flaming remnants of the relationship is kinda creepy too, isn't it?

Oops.

Anyhow, the last thing I would do, speaking as a sorta creepy gal myself, is stuff the offending letter into a bible for safekeeping and then keep it for 20 years. Or eternity, of which 20 years is a good start.

Obsess much, little missy? Methinks so.

Your friend needs to drop that psycho like a bad habit.

Sincerely,
Lady Marie™





----------------
Listening to: The Cure - Why Can't I Be You?
via FoxyTunes    

Dear Lady Marie™:

Last night I took my hunny out for a few drinks.  He seemed to be having a good time, laughing it up with me and our friends.  He ended up buying drinks too, and I thought everything was copacetic, but when we got home he laid a huge guilt trip on me.  He told me that he didn't want to go out in the first place because he couldn't afford to go to the bar AND buy me jewelry and take me out to dinner tonight for Valentine's day.  We got up this morning and he told me he was sorry and he was still going to buy me jewelry and take me out to dinner anyway, but I don't want him to.

I hate Valentine's Day anyway and would much rather we didn't celebrate it all.

What do I do?

Sincerely,

Peeved at This Meaningless Capitalist Pig Holiday



Dear Peeved:

Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth, shall we?  He wants to buy you jewelry?  Have at it, I say.  Let him buy you the most expensive thing that he can't afford now that he's "wasted" his money on an apparently fun night with you and your friends at the bar.  Immediately take said jewelry and hock it at the pawn shop and buy yourself something that you really want. 

When he asks you whatever happened to that lovely jewelry that he bought you for Valentine's Day, smile sweetly and tell him that you pawned it and spent the money on an unforgettable three hour tour with a delicious man whore one night when he stayed out late with his drinking buddies.  Want to be really vindictive?  Tell him it was the best sex you ever had.

As for that dinner?  Take it!  Order the most expensive thing on the menu, pick at it, and then proceed to get rip-roaringly drunk on after-dinner cocktails.  Then proceed to puke up what little you did eat all over his car/lap/shoes.

That should effectively ruin his Valentine's Day and guaruntee that future Valentine's Day celebrations will be avoided by him at all costs.

Best of luck!

Sincerely,

Lady Marie™

In my Lame Excuse for a Blog Post a few days ago, I let slip that I started a new writing project back in October, and Johnny threatened me with a good time to get it going again.

While I cringe at the thought of throwing this out there when I don't even know where I'm going with it yet, I thought I'd share it, just because.  Not that posting it is going to make me feel in any way obligated to continue down this road.  I think you all know me well enough on that score by now.

Leave me a comment and let me know your opinions, thoughts, criticisms, etc. 

From my work in progress:

Somewhere along the way, I lost the date.  I could tell you what month it might be based on the weather, which wasn't even really accurate.

The winters had seen to that.

Aleksandr counted the days and the phases of the moon.  He said that I should think of new names for the months now, since the old ones had been forgotten.

We hadn't seen another living soul for at least three full moons.

Three months.

I used to pray for solitude from other people. 

Now I was smothering in it.

We were somewhere along the eastern edge of the what my grandmother had called the Rocky Mountains, following a cracked and pitted highway.  Every so often the rotted hulk of a semi, the rusting carcass of a jeep, or a pick-up truck, or a car, stood in stark contrast to the woodland encroaching on their open tombs.

We looted as we went, finding useful gear to add to ours and even replacing some of it when we got lucky.  Leaving things behind was a matter of survival, and I hoped, however futilely that someone else who needed it might come along.

That hope died as we climbed higher into the mountains and summer wore on.

"I would have thought we would have found signs of someone by now," I finally snapped in frustration as we left another ghost town on a cooler morning than most.

Aleksandr paused and turned around for one last look at the deserted place.  He sighed lightly, eyes scanning the empty streets for any sign of recent habitation that we might be missing.

"They left a long time ago, Thalia," he said, almost apologetically.  "My guess is that they went south with the rest.  Where we should be headed.  Winter is coming again."

"We'll be fine once we get over these mountains," I disagreed.  I knew of a place where we could survive, even if we did get there well after winter had set in.

"Thalia," Aleksandr coaxed. We'd had this argument every morning, but I wasn't going to let him win.  We were headed west. I wasn't going to stop until I 'd seen the ocean again.

"We'll winter on the western side, Alek, and cross the desert before spring is done. We'll be fine."

I turned and started  walking swiftly up the deserted entrance ramp to the long abandoned highway, dismissing the empty town and the empty towns that lay ahead of us.  I didn't need evidence of humanity.

I needed validation of mine.

"We don't know what kind of winter it will be, Thalia," he pleaded, catching up to me silently as I walked onto the decaying roadway and found the broken white lines.

I didn't favor him with a reply as my eyes found the repeating pattern in the fading painted stripes and my feet fell into step along with them.  I had managed distances that I hadn't known were possible on foot, blindly meditating on those broken white lines.  My footsteps chanted the mantra of miles passing while my mind wandered elsewhere.

And wander elsewhere it did.

I could see the cars that we passed as they once might have looked, racing down the highway.  I could feel the wind in my hair with the windows wide open as my grandfather drove faster than I'd ever felt him go.  The wind was hot, and it was dark outside.  My grandmother was sitting beside me, singing a quiet lullaby, soothing me off to sleep.

I was too young at the time to understand that my grandfather was desperately trying to get us away from the city before the bombs fell.

******

Some weeks later, with the air much colder than it was the morning of my outburst, we finally found ourselves coming to the last canyon before the highway would find us on the western side of the forgotten mountain range.

"It will take us at least a straight day of walking to get to the other side," I said.  I remembered this place, too, and I was relieved that we were nearing the end of our journey for a few months.

"We should start now," Alek said urgently.  The hard frosts on the ground the past few mornings had instilled a sense of urgency that I hadn't sensed in him before.

"Alek, it's mid-afternoon.  If I remember right, places to camp between here and the other side of the canyon are very few.  I don't think we should attempt it today." I remembered this stretch of highway very well.  He didn't know what he was suggesting.

"Then we follow the river," he stated bluntly and turned south to cross the overgrown meridian to get to it.

"Aleksandr," I said sharply.

"What, Thalia?" he abruptly stopped and stood with his back held stiffly to me.  "We're running out of time!  Winter is coming on swiftly, in case you hadn't noticed  We'll be lucky to be anywhere safe before the first snow, much less have any food to eat!"

He whirled on me then, eyes furiously ablaze.  "We don't know how long the winter will last this time, or how cold it will be.  We need to go south immediately!"

He paused in his tirade to follow my gaze, which was trained on the steep canyon wall to the south, the river hugging its base and curving away into deepening darkness further westward.

"As soon as possible," he ammended, and slung off his pack while I began setting up camp.

****

Fin

----------------
Listening to: Disturbed - Liberate
via FoxyTunes    

No, it's not the minimum payment on my credit card balance.

Nor is it the amount of my monthly car payment.

It is not the balance in my checking account.

It is not the sum of this month's gas bill.

It is something much, much scarier.

194.40 is what the scale in the doctor's office read this morning. 

Shit.

I knew it was getting out of hand, especially when my favorite uncle, who I haven't seen in four years, handed me a second piece of fudge because I looked like I was "in danger of wasting away to nothing" two weeks ago. 

Then of course, there was the mysterious appearance of my "new" second chin in over half of the pictures taken of me over the Christmas holiday.

Hell, I acknowledged the problem months ago in the second to last blog that I posted, and there are other blogs if you dig back far enough. 

I'm no stranger to my weight problem.  I am, however, a stranger to exercise and a healthy diet, apparently.

As for all that walking to work I was going to do?  Screw that.  Walking uphill on the highway after working 8 hours sucked donkey balls, pardon my French.

So tonight I came up with a different plan.

I loaded up the DVD player with Crunch Fitness's Dance Party, stuffed my size XXL self into the new size XL workout clothes that I bought at Steve and Barry's back in Pittsburgh, and proceeded to shake my bodacious butt to the funky retro salsa beat on the television.

I had the good sense to close my blinds first, because I didn't want everyone in the neighborhood watching as I flailed my arms around and stumbled across my living room like a drunken ape on crack.

A few more sessions of that and I'll be eating bananas and picking fleas off of my cat.

Let's just hope I don't start flinging poo.

----------------
Listening to: T'pau - Heart And Soul
via FoxyTunes