Alli stood at my left shoulder, resting her chin on the back of my chair to peek at whatever it was on my computer screen that held my attention. I could feel her there, fidgety and anxious, waiting as patiently as she knew how until I finished typing. Her warm breath tickled my neck, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the computer (these days it is always the computer) to give her a smile, and that is when it happened. That is when I saw her.

Really saw her.

Of course you saw her, dipstick, you think to yourself. You were looking right at her. And you’d be right, of course, except for the “dipstick” part, because that is just plain rude. I looked at her. Of course I looked at her. But it was what I saw that startled me.

I’m not going to spout any hackneyed verbiage about seeing her “with new eyes” or “for the first time.” Nor will I wax allegorical about seeing beyond the outward appearance of those around us. Nope. It was simpler than that. I wasn’t seeing her anew; I was just… seeing her. Her sea green eyes, one magnified by a coke bottle lens, but both shining up at me, full of depth and warmth. The freckle on her chin. The wisps of unruly hair that danced around her hairline, escaped from the confines of her ponytail. The sweet little nose. The determined tilt of her chin, seemingly at odds with the amiable set of her lips. The almost palpable energy radiating from her body as her excitement and vitality threatened to spill over, to overwhelm me with, just… her, all of her, even as she struggled for composure.

She was so beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, yet so very real. I literally ached with the beauty of her. All of her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spunky little mini-me with glasses and a propensity for chattering simply for chattering’s sake. I don’t know how else to say it. She was just… herself.

And it was breathtaking.

Alli shook my shoulder. “Mom? Momma?” She peered into my eyes, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.
Just a moment had gone by–seconds, really–but I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, absolutely spent, as if I’d been traveling for weeks in some far off place and I was finally returning home. Trying to get my bearings.

I blinked a few times, fast, winking away any tears that dared to escape. I showed my tear ducts who’s boss, so to speak. “Yes, sweetie?” I finally answered.

“I love you.”

Now, I know for a fact that she had been about to ask me, “Can I read to you?” Because that is what she always asks when her homework is finished and she needs to read for twenty minutes for her reading log. But she changed the program.

“I love you, too,” I replied, then pulled her into my arms for a hug.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “Momma?” she asked as she gently disentangled herself from my arms, arms which may or may not have been holding her a teensy bit too tightly.

“Hmm…?”

“Can I read to you?”

After a momentary glitch, we were back to our regularly scheduled program. All was well in the world.
But now, as I think back to that moment, I can’t help but wonder if Alli veered off-script because at that moment, that exact moment when she looked into my eyes… she saw me, too.

When shattering glass hits tile it makes a beautiful tinkling melody, light and ethereal, like distant wind chimes or water washing over pebbles in one of those meditation fountains you can buy at the Just Like On TV store in the mall. I could hear it so clearly, the melody, more real to me than the faraway sounds of car alarms, shouts, and sirens. From where I lay, sprawled on the ground, my head lolling to the side, I could see the glass skittering across the floor in slow motion, catching the rays of sunlight that shone in through the jagged hole partially filled with—what? an SUV?—where a solid glass door had been just moments before. The effect of the light on glass was dazzling. A haphazard prism.

I heard someone calling my name, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the glass. Rainbows of color all around me. So pretty.

“Juliet? Juliet?”

It was a dream. All a dream. Shattered glass, faraway voices, something dark and red slowly seeping out and away… Oh, no. No, no, no.

I remembered.

The reunion newspaper article. An afternoon spent poring through old yearbooks in the school library. The deafening squeal of rubber on asphalt just as I rounded the corner of the deserted school hallway. Flying metal and exploding glass knocking me off my feet. Papers I had spent hours gathering flying every which way. A sudden violent pain searing through my chest. A tidal wave of agony washing over me, before dissipating into a dull, faraway ache wholly unconnected to me. Not me. Not real. Only a dream. I could not be lying in a pool of shattered glass and blood. Blood. My blood?

“I want to wake up now.” Did I say it? Did I think it? I was awake in a dream. That was it. I closed my eyes, shut out the glass, the tile, the rainbow colors, the stuff that wasn’t–couldn’t be!– blood. Wake up, wake up, wake up…

“Juliet? Stay with me. Please, Juliet, stay…”

Someone knelt next to me and swore softly. I felt a hand brush gently against my cheek, wiping away splinters of glass. It stung. Like needles. Like bee stings. The person gasped. I moaned. Suddenly my button-up shirt was ripped open. Mind muddled, I tried to remember if I had picked out a cute bra that morning. But it didn’t matter. Not really. Medical professional. Plus, dreaming. I felt a tug, followed by a fieriness that radiated across my abdomen. Warm hands felt their way across my stomach, coming to rest in exactly the spot that, when pressure was applied, caused shooting pains of white-hot heat to explode in my head, illuminating the insides of my eyelids to a blinding pinkish-white.

I was definitely awake.

I gasped and struggled to move, but quickly realized that the movement only made things worse. Much worse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the voice whispered. “Pulled out the glass… have to apply pressure, I’m sorry…”

I blinked, groggy, foggy, and could just make out a person, a male person. He had his hands on my belly, and was leaning in to look at my face. He was close, I could feel him, but it was as if I was looking at him from the end of a long, dark tunnel, with the sun illuminating him from behind, obscuring his face in shadows. He smelled faintly of the ocean, and where his hands pressed, I burned.

“It’s not time yet,” the voice whispered, his lips so close to my ear they grazed against it softly. “You have to hang on. Stay here… stay…”

Where am I going to go? I thought to say, but keeping my eyes open was struggle enough. He continued murmuring words of encouragement, but his voice grew softer and was finally drowned out by a wave of darkness roaring towards me. I gazed up at the shadowed face once more, caught a glimpse of dark eyes, wide and panicked, eyebrows raised almost into his hairline, and for a split second I could see myself reflected in his eyes, strands of my dark hair plastered to my bloodied cheeks as I lay pale and still beside him, my body peppered with slivery shards of glass. I wanted to say something like “who are you?” or how I wasn’t ready to die yet, thank you very much, but all that came was a gentle sigh as I let the dark wave wash over me and carry me away.

Two weeks ago I died. So here’s my question: Why did I have to die to finally feel alive?

See, it’s all about priorities…

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…)

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.

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.

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:

“Ju-u-u-u-u-u-li-et?”

The multi-syllabic question of my name set my teeth on edge, because it was a sure-fire indicator that the speaker sprawled on my passenger seat was completely and spectacularly drunk.

I set my mouth in what I could only assume was a highly unattractive grim line and focused my eyes with hyper-precision on the road ahead.

Relax. Count to ten…

“Aw, c’mon Jules. What about love?”

As God is my witness, when I get home I am going to find out which idiot left a Love Songs of the Eighties CD in my car, and there will be hell to pay. Oh, yes. Heads will roll.

We rolled along the highway on the outskirts of town, approaching Ferndale. As we crested a hill, the Ferndale skyline appeared in the valley below, the bright lights of the city illuminating the sky.

Ignore him, I scolded myself as I consciously eased my grip on the steering wheel. Just concentrate on getting Dean and the Wilson sisters home in one piece. I set my eyes straight ahead again, resolved not to let Dean or his questionable taste in music affect me.

Sporadic giggles and a few slurred “What about love, love, love, yeah’s!” later, I couldn’t take it anymore, resolve be damned. The eighties love songs were going down.

“No more music for you,” I singsonged as I reached to flip off the power. One of Dean’s hands dodged and snaked stealthily around mine to—oh lord, no—crank up the volume, while the other caught my hand midway to the radio knob.

I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Honestly, I can barely walk a straight line after two beers, yet Dean was somehow more coordinated after an evening spent keg-standing and smoking pot. In what universe is that fair?

“Dean!” I said in a no-nonsense voice. “Let. GO.”

Then… oh, he did not just squeeze my hand.

Except he absolutely did.

Alarmed, I jerked my hand from his, which in retrospect was not the smartest choice as the abrupt move resulted in my car swerving dangerously close to the median. The near-collision was just enough to startle him into letting go, however, so I convinced myself it was worth it. Willing my heart to find its way out of my stomach, I reached toward the radio knob again, but quick as lightening Mr. Handsy McDrunkenpants swatted my hand away.

That was the final straw.

I swatted back, then the two of us fell into a bit of undignified girly hand-slapping, which was all the more embarrassing when Dean actually won the battle. Clearly, I could have taken him if keeping my eyes on the road weren’t such a high priority, and if I had been able to use two hands instead of just one. Safety first, that’s all I’m saying.

“Damn the eighties,” I muttered as Dean leaned back and happily hummed along with the music. This was going to be a long drive.

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

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.

*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.

He leaned a little closer into me. “Do you know what your little statement to the police cost me?” he asked quietly. Calmly. Too calmly.

I shrugged. “Any chance at a career in baseball?”

Boomer shoved my shoulders hard enough to send me crashing into the lockers behind me. I felt my combination padlock digging in between my shoulder blades. That was going to leave an interesting bruise. I didn’t try and pretend it didn’t hurt, but I certainly didn’t cower before him, either. I knew I had to get out of the situation before—well, before my temper and my smart mouth got me into even more trouble

“Try again.”

Don’t look away, I thought. No fear. I knew what I would see if I tried to call for help anyway. There’d be covert, curious looks, a few snickers here and there, the occasional sympathetic glance, but no one would dare get involved, especially not for me. I was careful to keep my face neutral as I stared quietly back at him.

Boomer apparently took exception to my reticence. Or, at least that’s what I gathered when I tried to move away. He stepped in close, his hands slamming into the lockers on either side of me with a bang that reverberated down the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice low, menacing. “I’m not done chatting with you.”

I looked straight into his angry eyes, wondering briefly if the storm rising inside me was mirrored in my own eyes. I knew how to bring a guy his size down, of course, but standing here in front of the entire student body was not the time to reveal that fact. Mom and Bruno taught me to be careful, to use violence as a last resort, to use my brains first. Then again, they never met Boomer Castillo.

“You really want to get out of my personal space,” I said quietly.

“I really want to…?” He grinned and looked around at his buddies, who responded with chuckles and disbelieving looks. “I really want to get out of her personal space, she says…”

As he glanced away, I took one desperate look around, hoping to see a way out of this without a black eye or some cracked ribs. What I saw filled me with hope. If I just played my cards right…

Boomer leaned so close to me our noses almost touched. “What? You tryin’ some kind of Jedi mind trick or something?” he asked. Not surprisingly, Boomer’s cronies snickered at his lame wit.

I only had a moment to provoke him and I had to time it just right. “Well, you’d have to have a mind to trick, now wouldn’t you?” I asked sweetly, tilting my head to the side.

His confused scowl nearly set me laughing, but the thought of his fist in my gut was sufficiently sobering. I knew when my taunt finally clicked by his quick intake of breath.

“Bitch!” he said with a laugh. “You think you’re so funny, so cute…” With surprising speed, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and shook me like a rag doll —once, twice—but I had braced myself in anticipation. Still, it rattled my teeth pretty good and I tasted blood. “But guess who’s calling the shots here, eh?”

“Clearly, you are,” I replied. “But seriously, dude,” I drawled out the “dude” derisively and made a show of wiping imaginary spittle from my cheek, “you should consider carrying a squeegee next time.” I turned my head and spit blood on the floor next to us. “Say it, don’t spray it.”

From the crowd I heard a few giggles that quickly turned into coughs.

I saw his fist pull back and it took everything in me not to react. Come on, come on! I thought desperately. Please hurry, please hurry, please hurry…

“Mister Castillo!” a man’s voice—Vice Principal Whitten’s voice, specifically— suddenly boomed out, his words carrying over the heads of the students in the now-crowded hallway. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Boomer dropped his fist from my shirt so quickly I stumbled backward. I fell against the lockers which prevented me collapsing to the floor. Stupid wobbly legs. As I sagged against the lockers watching Mr. Whitten bear down on us, I struggled to hide the relief that flooded through me.

The Dudes scattered every which way—just like little cockroaches, I thought—as Mr. Whitten approached the two of us. He sighed when he saw me. “Juliet Moss. Why am I not surprised?”

I shrugged and made a show of smoothing the damage Boomer had caused to the front of my shirt.

He rounded on Boomer. “And you!” he said sternly. “She’s half your size. And a girl!”

Hey, I thought.

Mr. Morgan, my calculus teacher, came rushing down the hallway. “What’s going on here?” He looked at Boomer, then me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

This was it. My Emmy moment. I winced and rubbed my shoulders. “I— I think I’m okay,” I said in a pathetic, brave-little-soldier voice. “Just some minor bruising… maybe a broken tailbone, you know, where I hit the lockers, no big deal…” Honestly. My sister Lucy would be so proud of my acting skills.

Mr. Whitten shook his head and sighed again. “Okay, Miss Moss. Go to the nurse’s office and let her take a look at you.”

For your consideration: best actress, Juliet Moss. Wow. This is such an honor…

I smiled smugly at Boomer as I limped past him. I heard Mr. Whitten say, “As for you, Mister Castillo, that, if I’m not mistaken, is strike three. Come with me.”

I looked back in time to see Vice Principal Whitten, followed by Mr. Morgan, push Boomer by the shoulders towards his office. Boomer twisted around and saw me watching.

“I know it was you!” he yelled again. “I’ll get you!” He tried to make a break for it, but both men held him fast.

I yawned, as if bored with it all, and then shrugged.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said with a laugh. He pointed at me and mouthed, I’ll get you, then disappeared around the corner with Mr. Whitten and Mr. Morgan.

With a sigh, I turned to leave and nearly ran smack into a wall of staring, whispering students. “Enjoy the show?” I asked scornfully.

I heard a familiar voice drawl, “Well, that was certainly anticlimatic.”

I looked to my left and there stood Becca and a small group of her friends. They all looked put out, as if deprived of a special treat. Namely, me, getting beaten to a pulp.

Honestly. And Joan wonders why I’m a misanthrope.

“Anticlimactic,” I heard one of her friends correct her as I brushed past them towards the exit to the parking lot.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said—”

“God!” Becca yelled. “Shut it!”

As the two girls began to argue, I rolled my eyes and stalked toward the exit, my affected limp forgotten. Hey, thanks for the help, I thought as I passed through pockets of students still milling in the hallway. You all suck.

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! Hurray!

They’re on their way!

The kids are coming home today!

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.

… or I WILL cut you.

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

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.

But as I tried to end the handshake and pull my hand from his grip, his fingers held me fast, his vice-like grip not giving an inch.

“Hey,” I started, but stopped before I finished the thought. I was too interested in his reaction to do more than just stare, my mouth hanging open like an idiot.

He didn’t say a word, seemed incapable of speaking, actually. Then, after a moment of staring down at our hands as if they were on fire, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then opened them again and looked at me with the most radiant light gleaming in his eyes. Then, without letting go of my hand, reached out his other hand and brushed his fingers gently down my cheekbone, stopping at my jaw.

Okay, I knew this was weird. Very weird. If any other boy would have tried this, he’d have several broken fingers and be in serious danger of never fathering a child. But I was frozen. And I didn’t care.

I started slightly the moment his fingers first touched my cheek, but the look on his face held me fast. He appeared to be awestruck, which didn’t make any sense. His fingers were chilly, but warm and staticky all at the same time, and where he had touched, my skin burned. What is going on here? I wondered as his fingers traveled under my chin and back up the other side of my face, leaving a trail of tingling skin. I closed my eyes and gulped.

“Who are you?” I finally managed to squeak out. Lovely, Moss. Way to sound authoritative.

He let his hand drop and smiled back at me, his eyes bright and amused. “I already told you,” he said, “I’m Finn.”

I felt foolish. But he was confusing me, with his smiles and… well, the touching. “Okay, then, Finn,” I said, with extra emphasis on his name, “how about you give me back my hand now?”

“Sorry.” His grin told me he wasn’t really. He released my hand slowly, letting his fingers trail across my palm.

I shivered. Was it fear? Excitement?

He continued to stare at me. I fidgeted, unsure of what to do next. Introduce myself? Scream for help? Grab his gorgeous face and kiss him? I groaned inwardly. Oh, man, what is wrong with me?

Finally, after what felt like hours—but was probably no more than a few minutes—he spoke again. “The question is,” he said, quirking one black eyebrow, “who are you?”

Honestly. Why are the prettiest ones always the dumbest?

“I already told you,” I said slowly, as if introducing a new concept to a two-year-old. “Me?” I pointed to myself, “Juliet. You,” I poked him in the chest, “Finn.”

He smirked. “I know who you are, Juliet Moss.”

I rolled my eyes. “Then why did you ask?” I asked with an exaggerated air of patience, struggling to hold back a smile. I couldn’t understand it, but I was much more comfortable than I would have thought I’d be with a strange, beautiful, possibly psychotic boy sitting in my car.

“I suppose what I should have asked is,” here he paused and tilted his head thoughtfully, “what are you?”

“What am I?”

He nodded. And darned if he didn’t look as if he expected me to answer.

“What am I?” I repeated, my voice rising on the last word. I mean, the nerve. “Well, last time I checked I was a seventeen-year-old girl with a rude, freakish boy sitting in my car.” I paused. “Uninvited, I might add.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, a slight frown drawing his strange eyebrows closer together.

It was completely illogical, but I didn’t. Not yet. “No, you can stay,” I said, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible. I shrugged and added, “Whatever.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied, grinning. He tore his eyes away from mine for a moment, and his gaze quickly swept the parking lot again.

“Hey, wait,” I said, suddenly remembering the company he had been keeping earlier, “weren’t you with Becca and her posse? So where are they?” I glanced around the parking lot, too, but we were still alone. “How’d you get here?” I asked, my eyes narrowing—I hoped—menacingly.

He looked at me as if he were trying to figure out something. I stared back, struggling to appear more confident than I felt. Finally he nodded, as if he had come to some sort of decision. “I walked. It’s not that far from where the guys are surfing.”

For the first time I really noticed his clothing. Where was his wetsuit? He was dressed in pale, faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, not exactly beach wear. I looked down at his feet—where instead of the flip-flops or canvas shoes, he had on athletic shoes—and noticed they didn’t have a speck of sand on them. I frowned. “You walked?”

He looked guilty, but only for a split second. “I wasn’t in the mood to surf,” he said defensively, but offered no more explanation. “And then I saw you here and I wanted to come by and make sure you were okay, you know, after that fall you took in the hall today and everything.” He cringed. “That looked like it hurt.”

“Yeah, about that. Thanks for helping me. The whole staring stupidly and the not helping me pick up my books thing? You’re my hero.”

He had the grace to look shamefaced. “I was just surprised. I don’t have beautiful girls tripping over me in the halls very often, you know.”

I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I laughed shakily to cover my embarrassment. “Nice save,” I brushed a stray piece of hair out of my face self-consciously. “I mean, that didn’t sound like a line at all,” I said in a tone that I hoped conveyed a perfect blend of irony and cynicism.

A sudden shrill ringing made both of us jump. I dragged my gaze away from Finn for a moment to grab my purse and fish out my cell phone. I rolled my eyes at Finn after a quick glance at my caller ID.

“I have to take this,” I said apologetically.

Finn opened his mouth to say something, but I shushed him and held up my finger to indicate I’d be just a minute. I turned my back to him and flipped open the phone.

“Not now, Lucy,” I hissed before she could say a word.

“But—”

“It’s kind of a bad time. I’ll call you back.”

“Juliet Moss, don’t you dare hang—”

I clicked the phone shut. Illogical or not, I was embarrassingly eager to resume my conversation with the mysterious Finn. I dropped my phone into my purse and turned around. “Now back to you lame excuses…” I started, but instead of the mystery boy I expected to see, there was only an empty seat. I quickly scanned the parking lot and beach, but it was no use.

He was gone.

So, that was my seventeenth birthday. And nothing says “happy birthday” like vandalism, mysterious gifts from beyond the grave, and being held hostage in you own car by strange (albeit beautiful) boys.

During the short drive home from the beach, I replayed the encounter with Finn over and over in my head. My reaction to him confused me. I was inexplicably drawn to him, and that scared me more than I cared to admit, even to myself. He was beautiful, yes, but there were moments in the car when the late afternoon sunlight hit his face just right—illuminating dark, slanted eyebrows over eyes so deeply blue the hue was almost lost in darkness—when he looked, well, downright devilish. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something very strange about that boy, something not quite right. Something dangerous.

It’s later now—almost midnight—and I have moved from my cozy spot in the window seat to the snuggly warmth of my bed. I have just returned from a foraging excursion to the kitchen. In my excitement to record every moment of this day for posterity, I forgot to eat and my stomach wouldn’t shut up about it. And the apple and lukewarm cola on my dresser? Not particularly appetizing at ten to midnight. I wonder if this is what they mean by “suffering for my art”?

Lucy and the boys returned from their respective evenings out about twenty minutes ago. Lucy and Perry went straight to their bedrooms within minutes of straggling in, but I can still hear Dean and Janie going at it out on the porch. Which, gross. At times like this I can’t help but curse Dad for moving us into Joan’s house, which comes fully equipped with a wraparound porch and a creaking porch swing—unfortunately situated directly under my window—where horny teenagers with seriously impressive stamina could lose themselves in the shadows.

Honestly. I don’t think it is at all appropriate that Perry—or any of us, for that matter—be exposed to the whispering, the occasional low moans, and the rhythmic squeaking of the swing, drifting in though my window from the darkened porch below. Plus, how is a person supposed to get any sleep with… all that going on? That’s all I’m saying.

There. I just yelled, “Get a room, you two!” By the outraged huffing and the muttered curses I’m hearing now, I think they got the message.

Blessed silence.

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.

It couldn’t last, of course. I felt uneasy. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of the problem, but something seemed off. I mean, unless I had merely imagined the voice—which, the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that was the case—there was a distinct possibility that my mother was alive. Shouldn’t I be elated? Shout for joy? Put on some happy tunes and dance the night away? Happy freaking birthday, right?

Yet, when I thought about the sudden chill I had felt earlier when I heard the movement in the kitchen, my apprehension increased. Paranoia, I told myself. Of course I freaked out. Strange noises? Big, empty house? It’s a given. Chill yourself.

But still, a ripple of anxiety nagged at me.

Did my mother leave the necklace? If so, why? Where did she go? Why didn’t she stay and talk to me? Why, why, why, why—

I must have dozed off. The next thing I remember, a sharp rap on the passenger-side window nearly put me through the roof.

“Mom?” I croaked, my eyes fluttering open. I quickly turned toward the window… and froze. Sapphire eyes on a pale, curious face peered in at me through the window.

Everything—breath, sound, time, everything—stood still for just a second. I honestly think my heart stopped beating for a moment… then it beat a hearty ba-bump, setting everything in motion again.

It wasn’t fair. Power locks hadn’t even been invented in the sixties. Me and my stupid Mustang obsession. Why couldn’t I have a nice Audi like everybody else?

The boy was staring down at me, his eyes wide, full of… something. Was it confusion? Wonder? As I scrunched back in my seat, as far away from him as possible, I quickly brainstormed several different ways to defend myself. Is he mental? I wondered as I studied his face, my fingers slowly inching towards my purse (I always carry pepper spray and a tazer—a gal’s got to be prepared). Looking back, that may have been a bit unfair. I mean, he didn’t actually look deranged or anything. I blame his eyebrows. Dark, thick, and slanted upwards at the ends, they gave him an unusual, satyric look. Dangerous.

A thrill of genuine fear ran through me as our eyes locked, each of us trying to gauge what the other was going to do. I tensed, ready to spring into action if he so much as moved a muscle. The heaviness that had been pressing on me, on my heart, since the reappearance of my mom’s necklace, had lifted, replaced with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Kicking ass and taking names, that I could do. Honestly, Mr. Reed certainly couldn’t get mad at me for defending myself, now could he?

I watched as the boy’s eyes, deep and troubled under those strange brows, darted around the parking lot. What, was he making sure the coast was clear? When I almost giggled at my unintentional pun, I realized that perhaps I needed to take this whole situation a bit more seriously.

And then I recognized him. He was the boy from the hall—and Becca’s car. The dark-haired mystery boy. Well, that’s just great, I thought. I wasn’t ready for them yet. Honestly, all I needed was Becca and Janie sauntering up to my car with Dean and Kyler trailing behind, gunning for another round of Kick Juliet While She’s Down. That would really make my birthday complete. I wondered if Dean would join in this time, or if he’d just pretend to be Switzerland again.

Instinctively, however, I knew we were alone.

“Hey, I know you,” I rasped out, my breathy voice surprising me. As I cleared my throat, I thought, “I know you”? Really, Juliet? Lame. Incredibly lame. What was wrong with me today? Trying to regain my composure, I added, “And stop staring at me like that.”

He continued to stare at me. Didn’t even blink. I’m not going to lie, he was freaking me out. Especially with those eyebrows arching up at me, all gothic and whatnot. Seriously. He could give Heathcliff a run for his money. (Ms. L would no doubt be impressed with this literary reference. She’d probably be rethinking that whole “You never pay attention, Juliet Moss” comment right about now.)

I realized I was holding tight to the steering wheel, using every ounce of strength I possessed to calm my heart, which was beating so fiercely I worried it would break right through my ribcage. I was on an adrenaline overdose, but something kept me from crying out. Not that it mattered if I did, seeing as nobody was around to hear me. Nice going, moron. Park away from the crowd. Might as well just hang a sign on the bumper saying, “Welcome, weirdos! Attack me!”

Then, before I could move or scream, he wrenched the passenger-side door open and slipped inside, dropping into the seat next to me with a sigh, apparently satisfied he and I were safe from any prying eyes.

As I watched him pull the door shut and turn toward me, on some level I knew I should have been afraid, screaming, scrambling to get out off the car before he pulled a knife or a gun and carjacked me, then killed me and stuffed my battered, bleeding body in the trunk of my car, where I would be discovered a week later in the deserted lot behind a Seven Eleven after the stench of my rotting corpse alerted passing motorists to my tragically deceased whereabouts. Instead, I stared at him with wide, startled eyes. In my defense, I just couldn’t help myself. He was so… pretty. Dangerously pretty.

Yes. Me? Shallow. Deal with it.

Seriously, he could have been a serial killer, but I’ll be damned if I could tear my eyes away from his. I held my breath as his deep blue eyes bored into mine, intense and questioning… Good lord almighty, I thought, he is totally going to kill me dead and I wonder if my hair is as tangly and hideous as I think it is and, wow, how gorgeous are those thick, black eyelashes against his pale skin?

“Did I say you could sit there?” I managed to say. It came out much less intimidating than I intended, so I glared at him for emphasis.

Then he smiled. Hand to God, he smiled, flashed a set of beautiful white teeth my way.

It was like all the air came back into my lungs at once—whoosh!—and I gasped.

Of course, I knew all about boys and their pearly-white flashy smiles, so I wasn’t about to be taken in by this weirdo, no matter how attractively his coal black hair swept across his forehead or how appealingly his eyebrows framed his eyes or how well his plain white t-shirt seemed to fit across his chest. I mean, he just up and jumped right into my car. All beautiful and whatnot. And smelling of the ocean. That was weird, right?

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

(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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)