*UPDATED I’m Thinking!

There are thoughts being thunk. I promise! But I’m in a funk. Not to mention the fact there are, unfortunately, not enough hours in my day to plunk out said thoughts being thunk…

Aaaaaand now I’ve gone all Theodor Seuss Geisel on your ass– er, bootays. How incredibly lame.

I need a vacation.

That being said, I have a story. It’s a good one. It involves six impatiently eager children, six gaily wrapped presents, one tinsel-covered Christmas tree, and a dream. Oh, and Uncle Ron. We can’t forget him. This story spans years and years and has recently come to a rather interesting conclusion. Or beginning. I don’t know…

When I gather the thoughts I’ve thunk, the keys I will plunk.

Oh, dear lord. I’m LAAAAAAAAAME.

Until I get my blog on, feel free to click over to TechnoGeekery for my latest shows:

TechnoGeekery Show #29: What the Widget?!

*TechnoGeekery Show #30: Send Videos…One Click!

Seriously. What the widget?! Did anyone ELSE know a person with Safari and Leopard could DO this?! SWEET.

* Plus, to prove people watch, I need your videos now! Send whatever you want, except porn ain’t allowed! (Hey, that sounds like a song…)

Leap of Faith… Redux

I recently stumbled across the following post, which I wrote way, waaaay back in May of ‘05. In all honesty, it made my heart hurt a little to re-read it. Who knew I could be introspective and poignant? Sometimes? Okay, I may have even teared up a bit. Just a little! I know, right? Me? BIG BABY. Deal with it. Re-reading the post also inspired in me a wicked craving for a donut. Go figure.

In any event, I thought I would share. Or, rather, re-share. Share again? Whatev. You know what I’m saying.

_______________________________

I have no desire to be enigmatic.

But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. “Let me out!” it all screams, because it has to go somewhere, right?

Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.

I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.

Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, “Huh. Good show! What’s for dinner?” Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the “what if’s” for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?

Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.

For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don’t act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.

“You are just like my ex-husband,” my sister said to me. “You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy.”

Oh, no she DIDN’T.

So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.

I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words “job satisfaction” were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I’m starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.

TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes… not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!…

Sorry.

The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:

I was out walking with two friends - the sun began to set - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.

As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.

Well, writing, and a big ol’ cinnamon cake donut. Yummmmmm.

Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.

American Idol is WAY more exciting.

Dude. How very anticlimactic.

So, apparently the Surprisingly Essential First Page contest judges have not watched enough American Idol to learn how to go about informing the public about the contestants’ elimination from a public contest. Right? All I’m saying is they obviously don’t have an appreciation for how awesomely the judges and my wee Ryan bring the UN!COMFORTABLE! to the elimination process. Like the time– during the Best. Results Show. EVER.– when my Ry-Ry was all “Chrisyouaregoinghometonight.” And Chris Daughtry was like, “What in the which where? WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?!” and Kat McPhee was trying to do the Snoopy Dance of Joy and cry at the same time, and Taylor Hicks (soooooulpatrooool) and Elliott Yamin were like “Yes!” (*fist pump*) “Wow, sorry, dude”? And Chris was pissed– like, seriously, he looked like he wanted to reach through the television and kill me dead– but it was just so AWESOME?! And now they use Chris’s song as the farewell (AKA: See Ya, Wouldn’t Wanna Be Ya) song and he is totally kicking ass with his very own band which he named after his very own self so it all worked out in the end? You know?

Because, honestly… how fun was THIS?! No fun at ALL, that’s how fun! We put ourselves out there, lay it all on the line, and what do we get? Nothing! A big ZIP. Nada. Zilch. ZIPPO. What about the bottom three? And the agony of staying in the bottom three until “after the break”? And where was the anxiety? The tears? The almost unbearable stress? The gratuitous “You look great tonight” and “You moved me”? The thinly veiled homophobic posturing? HUH?! Seriously. I’m saying.

But I have to give the judges their props, yo? 675 entries? Hey, I mean, Simon, Paula, and Randy get a gagillion contestants or whatever, so they could be all like, “Oooh, ‘wah!’ 675 entries? Bitch, please.” But there’s THREE of them– not just two, right?– so there you go.

But whatever. I’m not discouraged. No worries. As God is my witness, if Chris Daughtry can headline his own personal shouty band, I can get myself published.

So it’s all good.

Cat, OUT.

Nathan Bransford’s Surprisingly Essential First Page Challenge

Oh, Bente… Have I told you lately that I love you? Hmm?

So, yeah. Yesterday I got an email from an Aussie/Canadian friend o’ mine, Bente, regarding a literary agent dude by the name of Bransford. Nathan Bransford. Apparently, said literary agent dude opened a contest looking for up-to-500-word submissions of a person’s manuscript’s first page. Right?! RIGHT?! Dude, I’m SAYING. I mean, limiting myself to 500 words? HARD.

However, hundreds and hundreds of aspiring writers had already bombarded the blog by the time I heard about this contest, so it is fortunate that said literary agent dude had the prescience to solicit the assistance of a co-judge– a non-publishing-industry type by the name of Holly Burns (author of the Nothing But Bonfires blog)– who, incidentally, has a British accent, but not like Gwyneth’s or Madonna’s or Britney’s, but a REAL British accent, having been born English and whatnot.

Wait. What?

Oh! Contest! Shut up. I’m totally focused.

So, without much more than a cursory glimpse at Bransford’s– Nathan Bransford’s– website, I proclaimed him legit, threw caution to the wind, took my chances, threw myself in headfirst, pinned my hopes on a cloud, took the leap, jumped in with both feet, grabbed the bull by the horns and freaking wrassled that sucker to the GROUND… er, okay, I’m out.

I submitted an entry.

Yay! *sarcastic jazz hands*

What can I tell you? I’m a crazy person. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. CRAZY. PERSON.

And now? NOW? Well, I’m all aquiver with anxiety and self-doubt.

So thanks for that, Bente. No, really.

(No, really.)

Take a peek at my 498-word-entry (and feel free to critique) after the cut:
[Read more]

God Bless Us, Every One

We hope your day was merry and bright, as well.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Hey! Hey! Head on over to TechnoGeekery! Hey! There’s a new Quickie! Hey! And there is singing! And ANALOGIES! Good ones!

And, hey… did I mention the singing? Yep. I composed some original tunes and debuted them on my vidcast. I know, right? Sweet.

What can I say? I am ALL about the giving this holiday season. And my analogizin’ skillz coupled with the guitarin’ and singin’ and whatnot? Well, that’s just my little gift to you.

TechnoGeekery Quickie #4: iTunes… an Analogy

Oh. No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

Time’s Almost Up

I’m not sure if I’m going to make the deadline for NaNoWriMo this year, which… BUMMER?

*sigh*

Nevertheless, I shall persevere. So… here is a bit more of my perseverance (please keep in mind that NaNoWriMo is all about the quickness and the Just Do It-ness… you know, all rough-drafty and whatnot?… just sayin’):

___________________________________

It was just after the last bell. I had just closed my locker, ready to head out to my car, when a strong hand grabbed my upper arm and twirled me around.

“What the—” I started, but the words died in my throat when I saw Boomer Castillo glaring down at me.

He had planted himself directly in front of me, legs spread wide. His black hair was short, except for the bangs, which were dyed blue and draped over his forehead, obscuring one eye. His dark shirt, sporting the busty silhouette usually found on a tire flap, fit across his chest the way a shirt fits when a guy exercises regularly. Then again, what would you expect from a guy named Boomer? He stood so close I could feel his breath on my face. This was unfortunate, as dude had some serious Cheetos breath.

“Wow,” I said, conversationally. “Looks like you added weight-training to your heavy schedule of smoking pot and riding the half-pipe. Kudos.”

“All the better to kick your pretty little ass,” he said with a smile that did not match his menacing tone.

I gasped. “You think I’m pretty?” I asked breathlessly.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment. That I wasn’t peeing my pants in terror appeared to be throwing him.

Then, “I know it was you,” he stated.

Well, crap.
[Read more]

In Case Anyone Wondered Where the Sam Hill I Am These Days…

AKA: Why Cat is a HUGE Slacker.

NaNoWriMo, baby.

Honestly. Who knew that it was possible to be TOO thin? Well, apparently this is the case, if one slips the word “spread” before the “too thin” part. GOSH. Someone could have TOLD me!

In other news, TechnoGeekery Show #10: Scrapbooking… Taking it Techno, is now up at TechnoGeekery.com. Check it out! Digi-scrap is FUN! For the whole FAAAAAMILY!

Hurray for YAY!

With My Apologies to Stan and Jan Berenstain:

Hurray! Hurray!

They’re on their way!

The kids are coming home today!

Stardust: Storybook Romance at its BEST

If you love a good boy-meets-girl storybook movie (Think Princess Bride, but more romantical) chock full o’ comically nasty witch queens and evil princes, fantastical sorcery and swordplay, and Robert DeNiro in drag, well, this one just magically fell into your lap:

Stardust, adapted from a novel by Neil Gaiman.

I saw it last night, and I have to say it is charming. No, really! And I’m not just saying that because it’s a wicked good pun. Okay, I AM saying that because it’s a wicked good pun, but also because it’s TRUE! Utterly charming. And FUNNY. And romantical. Did I say romantical?
*sigh*

This is the date movie of the summer, y’all. I mean, nothing warms the cockles of one’s heart like a story of an impetuous young man setting out on a magical quest to retrieve a fallen star in order to impress his beautiful but cold unrequited love, am I right? Eh? (And when that unrequited love is played by Sienna Miller, you just KNOW it will take a ginormous gesture to win her affection.) And when a packed theater (packed! a week and a half after its release!) is laughing and cheering throughout the movie–so much, in fact, that you will probably have to go see the movie again because you missed some parts due to the laughter and cheers from the audience– you know there’s something special going on.

Honestly. This movie is one of those rare, boy-meets-girl, storybook romances that actually EARNS its sweetness. And I think I have a new secret movie character crush in the impetuous Tristan (played by Charlie Cox). Allow me to say… RAWR.

Plus, did I mention Robert DeNiro in drag? Yes?

Well, there you go.

No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

Do Not DISTURB…

… or I WILL cut you.

No, really. See my crazy hair? Does it LOOK like I’m joking?!

Blame it on Paris, Redux

Alas. Paris Hilton continues to suck my will to live.

Thus, my novel snappet, part deux:

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice deep and melodic. “I’m Finn.”

I stared at the sinewy pale hand he offered me—long fingers and firm, milky white skin (well, he’s obviously not a surfer, I surmised somewhat inanely)—and thought how unfair it was that even his hand was gorgeous. I was also strangely pleased that he hadn’t opted for the fist bump or the “‘Sup” with accompanying nod, like other boys I knew. He went for the handshake. A boy after my own heart. Still, I hesitated, and that is when I realized that his hand was actually shaking. It was subtle, barely noticeable. If I hadn’t been staring at his hand so closely, I probably would not have even noticed.

I looked at him, a slight quirk in one eyebrow and a question in my eyes. If anyone was supposed to be nervous, I thought the small, seemingly defenseless girl with the strange boy in her car would be the one allowed that honor. He stared back at me, no longer smiling, his eyes wide. Apprehensive, with a touch of defiance. His whole body seemed tensed up, every muscle tight. Except for the slight tremor in his hand, he looked as still and as immoveable as stone.

With a small, nervous laugh, I took Finn’s hand in mine. “I’m Juliet,” I said, and gave his hand one small shake. I remember my surprise that—even though it was unusually muggy for early November—as soon as his hand touched mine, all the hair on my body bristled as the air in the car grew warmer, literally crackling with static electricity. I also remember that as soon as I touched his hand, his body jolted as if shocked. Although it hardly seemed possible, his eyebrows flew even higher, almost disappearing into his hairline, and I swear all the blood drained from his face, evaporated, in an instant. [Read more]

Blame it on Paris

Okay, who else is absolutely exhausted by Paris Hilton and this weekend’s Get Out of Jail Free Card debacle? Hmm? Let’s see a raise of hands… I know, right?!

Goodness. I am weary, y’all. Weary, I tell you. I have no energy for original thought today. None. Nada. Zilch. My mind? Blown by the idiocy.

So that is all I have to say about that. Instead, because of my weariness, I shall simply post another snippet from my novel. Okay, it’s a bit more than a snippet. What does that make it, then?… A snappet?

Plus, I’m going to try out my new (to me) “Read the rest of this entry…” link feature. So, yay me!

With no further ado, I present to you… a snappet of my novel in progress:

It took me all of ten minutes spent sifting through my favorite DVD’s to decide I didn’t want to waste the rest of the evening watching a movie all by my lonesome. I grabbed my keys and headed out to my car.

I drove aimlessly for over an hour. The houses—striking and inviting individually— began to blend together, identities lost in the sameness dictated by homeowner association bylaws. No garage doors left open, no cars parked on the street, no lawns with grass more than two inches high. I wondered vaguely if I should be frightened by the Stepford Wifeyness of it all, but I had too much on my mind to be amused by my own dumb attempts at humor.

I honestly had no plans to head for the ocean. I certainly didn’t want to see Becca or Dean or any of that crew, but somehow I ended up at the edge of our local beach, staring out at the seemingly endless miles of rippling green and blue. I had unofficially designated this particular section of the beach as my own private sanctuary. It was usually deserted; the imposing rocks and gravelly sand didn’t exactly provide an inviting venue for surf and sun.

I parked in the furthest space from the lot entrance and set my emergency break. I took my keys out of the ignition and dropped them into my purse, slowly unrolled my window—just a crack—then reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

Even with the window cracked, there was a sultry oppressiveness in the air, but I basked in the warmth, feeling momentarily peaceful in my quiet globe of heat. It reminded me of when, at six years old, I would spend hours lazing in one of the elaborate blanket forts I used to erect in our living room. Oh, how my mother hated those forts. Where I saw a magical fortress of solitude–however stuffy–she saw three rumpled beds she had to remake.

Mom.

I struggled to banish the sudden ache I felt by concentrating on the rhythmic lapping of the waves surging to shore, dashing against rocks and rolling over sand, before pulling away again. For a few moments, nothing but the steady surge of waves and the gentle thump of my heartbeat interrupted the stillness of the haze-hushed afternoon.

[Read more]

The strangest thing…

The strange thing about writing novels is that sometimes the story gets away from you. You know, takes on a life of its own? The characters run amok and wind up surprising you with things you just did NOT see coming. I mean, I always knew there was something not-quite-right about Jake. Something… different. But this?

(excerpt 1 from Juliet Moss novel)

“You’re a ghost?”

Jake cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is that a problem?”

“A ghost,” I repeated as I narrowed my eyes at him and folded my arms across my chest.

“That’s right,” he answered, folding his arms across his chest.

“As in ‘Casper the Friendly’.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Well, except for the transparent, floating around in the rafters part.”

“A chain-rattling, house-haunting ghost,” I said, recklessly waving imaginary chains in his face.

He pushed my hands away. “Well, it’s not so much ‘house-haunting’ as it is ‘hanging around.’ Come on. ‘Skulking,’ maybe.”

I jabbed his chest with my finger. “Then why can I touch you?” I asked, willing my knees to stop shaking, the traitors. I mean, this—all of this—was ridiculous… right?

He paused, his eyes distant, thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he finally answered.

“Seriously,” I said, my voice rising to an embarrassingly high note of near-panic. “A ghost?!”

“Could you keep it down?” He nervously scanned the parking lot, then turned his gaze back to me, his dark eyes intense, serious. “And is it just me or is this conversation going nowhere?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, it’s just so—”

“Hard to believe,” Jake finished for me with a rueful grin. “Trust me, I’m right there with you.”

“I was going to say ‘freaky,’ but what you said works, too.”

(excerpt 2 from Juliet Moss novel)

“Juliet.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“God, Jake!” I yelled. “My heart!”

Jake chuckled. “Why so jumpy there, Blondie?”

“Would you please stop lurking and jumping out at me like that?” I demanded. “Myocardial infarctions are not my friend.”

Jake walked out of the shadows at the side of the school. “Sorry.”

I cast him a dirty look. “No you’re not,” I muttered.

“Well, in my defense, it is pretty funny. You get all twitchy,” he said, opening his eyes wide and twitching his shoulders a few times to drive home his point.

I glared.

“I’m not joking. You’re wound tighter than a spring.” He stopped imitating me and let his eyes wander up and down my body. “You need to relax, Juliet Moss.”

The boy sure knew how to make a girl blush. Remember the mocking, I told myself sternly before saying, “Whatever, perv. And hello, yeah,” I gestured to draw his gaze back to my face, “up here, buddy. Eyes above the neck, if you don’t mind.”

Jake leered suggestively at me. “Oh, but I do mind.”

“Seriously?” I mean, the nerve of this dead guy. “Shut it or I will pop you in your mouth.”

He grinned so radiantly I had to turn away to hide my involuntary smile. “It was worth a shot,” he said simply.

I snorted. “Dude, you’re a ghost. There is no shot.”

“You wound me.”

“You’re dead!”

“Well, sure, if you want to be Miss Technicality.”

Jake laughed as I threw my hands in the air and growled in frustration.

……………………..

You see? I mean, a ghost?! WOW. Who knew?

I win! I win! [/Monica Gellar voice]

The lure of creative writing has always been irresistible to me. To create people, stories, worlds… As far back as the first grade– when I published my first book, Monster in Outer Space, a classic– I remember feeling the attraction. It was free reign for my imagination. The sky’s the limit! I thought. Anything goes! Hoo! And still, today, writing– the act of setting thoughts to paper– brings me joy. Harmony, even. But day cannot exist without night. Light cannot exist without darkness. And joy and harmony cannot exist without pain and dissonance. There is a dark side to every passion. One cannot exist without the other.

Which is why I am too often struck with the certainty that I will never ever EVER write anything even half as fantastic as some of my favorite authors.

To illustrate:

Say I read an amazing book– I Capture the Castle, for example– and absolutely fall in love with the protagonist, the setting, the seamless narrative flow. Let’s just say that. Me = Loving Book Big Lots. When this happens, when I genuinely fall for a book, it can be hours, even days, before I am able to pull myself out of that world, the world the author created, and back into my own. Honestly, it can be days before I stop answering seemingly straightforward questions such as “How was your day?” or “What should we do for dinner?” with non-sequiturs like, “But if Cassandra would have just given Stephen a chance, maybe… wait. What?” Which just goes to show that TGIM is a patient and long-suffering superman and it’s a wonder I still have any friends.

But when the high wears off, I’m suddenly struck with this crippling attack of anxiety and uncertainty about my own creative efforts.

“I suck,” I whisper to myself. “I could never write such compelling characters, such vivid scenery… Who do I think I am?! Oh! Woe! I am incredibly lame and sucktastic!”

But at the end of the day, I try to remember that I am me, and I have my own voice. And while I may never ever EVER write anything even remotely resembling the fantastic works of some of my favorite authors, what I do write will be my stories, mine alone, the ones only I could tell in my own way. And that is okay. Better than okay. Because, honestly. Why would I want to tell anybody else’s?

Of course, when that doesn’t work I usually set fire to my unfinished manuscripts and eat Ben & Jerry’s while dancing in my undies around a fiery wastebasket of burning hopes and dreams.

Which is cool, too.

Excerpt from NaNoWriMo project (and if this is cheating…? Eh. I have a life, dammit!)

When I came to, it took me a minute to open my eyes. I was spread out on my stomach, my cheek flat against—something. A rough, scratchy surface. Gravel, maybe. I was definitely outside. Cool air wafted across my face and I realized the breeze was probably responsible for reviving me. My eyelids felt stuck together, and there was a faint buzzing in my ears, making it difficult for me to concentrate on my surroundings. I did realize, however, that I could just make out the murky, darkish orange-red of the insides of my eyelids, so there was light—somewhere.

Good lord. My head ached as if it had been split open like a piñata at a child’s birthday party. But, you know, without the joy of candy. Or the sugar rush. Just one big swing of a stick—TWHACK!—lights out. Night-night, mister paper mache’ donkey. It’s been fun.

I rolled slowly onto my side, but stilled immediately when the movement caused shooting pains of white-hot heat to explode in my head, illuminating the insides of my eyeballs to a blinding pinkish-white. I gasped, waited for the rolls of nausea to pass, then slowly, ever-so-slowly, picked my head up off of the ground as much as I could manage without causing any more near-debilitating explosions of pain. I didn’t know where I was, but I was sure as hell going to figure it out, and passing out wouldn’t help anybody, least of all me. And honestly, I was really the only person I was interested in helping at the moment.

I blinked groggily up at the charcoal night sky, a streak of sky directly above me dulled to near-grey by a shaft of bright, fluorescent light shooting over my head from the headlights of a car parked several feet away.

I braced both hands against the dirt and pushed myself up slightly, welcoming the quick, stabbing pain of the gravel underneath me scratching and biting into my skin because it somehow distracted me from the whole My Cracked Skull Hurts Like The Dickens thing. Holding myself up with one hand, I touched the other to the bump on the back of my head, which, oh happy day, was the size of a goose-egg already. That’s going to leave a mark, I thought stupidly, as my hand came away from my head with a smear of warm blood across my palm.

Wincing, I tried to shift into a sitting position, on my knees with my legs tucked under to help me balance. I had to close my eyes for a second so I could concentrate on quelling the nausea that kept threatening to do something drastic if I did not remain still. The last thing I needed was to lose my lunch. I already smelled bad enough without adding vomit to the overwhelming stench of fear that seemed to be radiating off me as if I’d bathed in Eau de Freaked the Hell Out.

I finally opened my eyes again, and blinking against the glare of the headlights, looked around, trying to figure out exactly where I was.

Strange. I was on the shoulder of the highway, at the point on the hill outside of town where the secluded, deeply wooded grove that ran alongside the highway met one of Ferndale Hills largest, most exclusive housing developments, and I—at least as far as I could see and hear—seemed to be completely alone. I was also, miraculously, several feet away from my own car. I slowly let out a long, shaky breath that until then I didn’t realize I had been holding. My car. Safety.

Because I was at the top of a hill, I knew that even if the battery were dead I could still make my getaway. Thanks to my Mustang’s tendency to drain a battery faster than water through a sieve, I had mastered popping the clutch before parallel parking. Slowly, however, it occurred to my pain-muddled mind that although the motor wasn’t running, the headlights were still shining, which meant there was obviously some juice left in the battery.

Relief.

Then… keys!

What if—whoever—took my keys? It took me a full three seconds to remember that even if this were the case, I’d still have a shot at getting my baby fired up.

Let’s see, first, put her in neutral, unless I wanted to end up face first in the steering wheel. What else, what else? Just… don’t ask. Let’s just say my dad has never forgiven me for ruining the plastic cover I pried out from under the steering wheel of his car during my Gone in Sixty Seconds phase.

Expose the wires under the steering wheel… find the two matching reds… touch them together… dashboard lights up like Christmas… cross the brown lead with the reds… bada-bing!… she turns over and I’m in business.

Shakily, I struggled to my feet, stumbled upright. Everything looked blurry and the trees were all slanted at wrong angles, disorienting me, but I managed to make it to the car, wrench open the door, and collapse into the driver’s seat. And I didn’t even vomit or pass out, so I counted that a victory.

I couldn’t believe my luck when I spotted my keys in the ignition. I had been thwacked over the head by God knows who, for who knows what reason, yet I had apparently not only escaped unharmed (excluding the ginormous, bloody goose-egg on my noggin, of course, but why quibble?), but had the means to get the hell out of Dodge. It may have been the concussion talking, but I could not for the life of me figure out why someone would hide in my backseat and knock me unconscious, only to drag me out of my car on an old deserted highway, leaving me and my sweet ride all alone, unmolested. Was it a warning of some sort? Was someone trying to tell me something? He? She? could have done anything to the car, to me—

A sudden chill ran through me. With a shudder, I resolutely put that line of thought out of my head. Nothing had happened. I was fine… was going to be fine. End of story.

I cranked the keys with one hand, as the other, out of habit, flew to my neck to touch the necklace my mother had given to me.

What just happened? I thought to myself. Why would someone—Oh crap.

My necklace. It was gone.

I searched everywhere. The seats of the car (front and back), outside on the gravel, even under the car, but it was gone.

My necklace. The necklace. Gone.

Well… this can’t be good, I thought.

Because I WANT an ulcer, that’s why! GOSH!

“National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.”

The hell, you say? An entire novel? In one month?! Why, it just can’t be done!

Or can it?

So… yeah. I’ve decided to write a novel this month. You know, because it simply isn’t enough for me to care for three children (and one TGIM), work full-time, create Veronica Mars recap podcasts, get my Yoga Booty Ballet on, and promise to Post or Die! every day this month. Oh, no, no, no. I must and shall do MORE!

Seriously. Check out my Word Count Widget in my sidebar under “Stats and Stuff.” Pretty sweet, eh? Eh? I’m official and e’rything, see? Too cool.

But what’s up with only twenty-four hours in a day?! Huh?! Who’s lousy idea was that?!

Damn those ancient Egyptians.

Dangerous Lovers

No, I’m not talking about that Grey’s Anatomy storyline last Thursday with the lovers who were rushed to the emergency room, painfully– ah– stuck together thanks to a misguided piercing, an IUD, and their own cheatin’ hearts, although… hee. That was pretty funny. And gross. But mostly funny.

No, I’m talking about Bella, the new girl at the high school in the small town of Forks, Washington, who falls in love with the beautiful, mysterious Edward, who finds himself helplessly drawn to her, as well. In fact, Edward has a hell of a time controlling the blood lust Bella arouses in him. You know… him being a vampire and all?

Okay, I admit it. I have absolutely fallen in love with the New York Times bestseller Twilight, by Stephanie Meyer. I know, right?! She totally had me at “Bella falls in love with a vampire.” The story is equal parts sensual (but in a dark, deeply romantic way) and heart-poundingly suspenseful, and quite honestly, I haven’t enjoyed a fantastical, star-crossed love story this much since Angel left Buffy…

Right, then. Just thought I’d share.

Carry on.

I have the BLAHs, y’all.

Home sick. No motivation. In windowseat, rereading I Capture the Castle. Good book. Will perhaps eat slice of yummy banana bread. But later. Now? Read. Be still. Ah…

Do Not Disturb

WAY busy, a’ight?
Until further notice…

ETA: O! M! G! This is SOOOOOOO gloriously exciting! Go, Harry! Go, Harry!

EATA: Man. Oh. MAN. Now that’s just plain MEAN, J.K. Rowling. A cliffhanger?! After THAT roller coaster ride?! MEAN, I say! Just… mean.

(You’ve GOT to read this book, y’all. You will DIE.)

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