*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.

TechnoGeekery: Request for Questions

New vidcast up at TechnoGeekery.com!

That being said, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. Oh, not in a Saving For The Future kind of way, or an I Will One Day Backpack My Way Across Europe If It Is The Last Thing I Ever Do So Help Me GOD kind of way, but in the What The HELL Am I Doing With My LIFE way. You know. I know you know.

I blame TechnoGeekery.

Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Here’s thing. I was approached, asked if I’d be interested in focusing my desire to create video podcasts into something with a little more purpose than PSA’s about Public Restroom Cell Phone Etiquette (I still stand by my original stance of *shudder*), and I was all, “Okay!”

Because I’m STUPID?

Here, let me tell you a secret: Me? I’m a bit of a perfectionist. No, really! Um… and a tad OCD. A smidge, really. Oh, and there’s the ADHD thing. So being the sole writer, cinematographer, film editor, director, producer, performer, musical coordinator, and PR person for a video podcast? A little time consuming. And–perhaps– a bit stressful. You know, at times. Or… most of the time.

So, while many audio podcasters may be able to set aside a few nights a week to record two or three episodes of their show per night, it is possible they may not have even a remotely accurate idea of the amount of time I put into one five-minute episode of TechnoGeekery.

See, it’s a chunk of time. A HUGE chunk. Big ol’ chunky chunk. Lots of chunk going on here.

And I can’t help wondering… well, what in the world is it all for? Why do I do it? Why do I fret over it? Will I look back on my life ten years from now and think, “Boy, HOWDY. I am so GLAD I spent all my free time making episodes of TechnoGeekery.” In the big scheme of things, how important is it to me that maybe–just perhaps– I made someone laugh? And maybe–just perhaps– I taught someone something they didn’t know? And if the answer to both of those questions is “pretty darn important,” the obvious question is then, “Is it important enough?”

And I’m not sure it is.

Especially when I stumble across a piece of writing like the following, which I wrote back in June of ‘06 after seeing Shopgirl, and I am reminded of exactly where I want to be in ten years:

June 5, 2006

This weekend TGIM and I watched Steve Martin’s novella-turned-motion picture Shopgirl (which… great movie) and though it had moments of humor which one would expect from the guy who shall go down in infamy as That Guy Who Played The Jerk, the humor was quiet– subtle, even. Further, the movie truly said something, spoke truths, and conveyed this in an atmosphere that was slow and thoughtful and deeply affecting. It reminded me quite a bit of Lost in Translation, actually, in both pace and poignancy. Both movies star over-the-hill comedians in quirky, May-December relationships with beautiful young girls– and I do freely admit the thought of watching Steve Martin and Bill Murray playing any beautiful young girl’s crush/lover initially squicked me right out– but amazingly, they both pull it off, so yay them.

But most of all, both movies speak of loss and discovery and an emotional awakening in a way that I have come to realize I long to master in my own writing. But too often it seems that when I am writing and find myself faced with the choice of expressing myself in a thoughtful, subtle manner or in a humorous, bantering light, I inevitably choose to joke. And I joke because that’s just what I DO, I laugh, whether life brings me gifts of joy all tied up with pretty bows or bitch-slaps me and hands me bitter disappointment, I laugh and laugh and laugh. Then laugh some more. To be honest, I cry, also, but not in front of anyone, not so anyone can see, because what if people find out there are chinks in this laissez faire demeanor I’ve created– they could hurt me more, right? I don’t like anybody to see me cry. Much like my youngest daughter Alli, who when she hurts herself will inevitably jump up from the spill shouting, “I’m all right! I’m okay! That kind of tickled, actually!” even though we all know it hurt her and there are tears in her eyes and she is just saying it didn’t hurt so we will leave her alone and she can run away and cry in peace. In a way perhaps we are trying to say, “You can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I laugh at pain! Ha ha ha!”

So I write and I’m silly and whimsical and manic and almost always utterly tongue-in-cheek, and though I quite often express exactly what I am truly feeling, it is more often than not hidden away in evasive verbiage. Linguistic smoke and mirrors, if you will. And though I know emotional honesty does not always have to be slow or thoughtful and that poignancy and humor are not mutually exclusive, I wish sometimes I could find the words to illustrate what I really mean without resorting to silliness and feigned vapidity. To be starkly honest, to lay my heart out in words so you could actually feel it beating if you just listened closely enough, and you just KNOW. You feel me. Hear me.

Then, inevitably, I run off to watch an old episode of Buffy or Veronica Mars and I am lost in the witty quips and snarky banter, and awed by the sheer brilliance of the marriage between humor and poignancy in the writing, and I’m like, “Eh.”

Because although I sometimes yearn– burn, even– to write peaceful, thoughtful prose, yes, passages of deeply affecting language whose impact will stay with people for hours, days, even years after reading it, that is not who I am. I am impulsive and passionate, rarely peaceful. And I see life though a haze of sardonic humor and I can’t help but spill it out in my writing.

And I think I am finally coming to terms with that.

Grr! Stupid Shopgirl. Making me all meditative and whatnot. Bah! I’m off to eat a donut and shake off this silly moment of introspective sentimentalism… I’m thinking cinnamon cake.

Carry on.

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]

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]

My World Is Askew

I seem to be suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. Blockage. Block-o-ramma. Which sucks. Suckage. Suck-o-riffic. I mean, it’s better than a cough due to cold, but still.

That is all.

…

WHAT?

I just told you! Blockage?! Keep up.

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?

When will Cat get her groove back?

I seem to have misplaced my mad blogging mojo.

*sigh*

Shenanigans.

Note to self:

When your soon-to-be sixth grader needs booster immunizations and a TB test, do not consider this a teaching opportunity and share with him (and his little sisters) information about the super interesting regulations you happen to be drafting about bovine tuberculosis, and explain that the government will pay indemnity to encourage herd owners to depopulate their TB-infected herds rather than simply testing and treating them, because depopulation is the most effective way to deal with the disease and prevent re-infection. And when he wants to know what EXACTLY you mean by “depopulation” and “indemnity,” do not enthusiastically explain that, duh, depopulation means to slaughter.. kill.. destroy… put down… and the government totally pays them to do it, too!

Because sleep is good, and kids waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, screaming, “NOOOOO! Help! I don’t wanna be depopulated!”? Well, it can seriously disrupt the zzzzz’s.

I’m just saying.

You know you’re an awesome momma when…

…your 3rd grader’s final slide in her PowerPoint presentation on Rosa Parks, the Mother of the Modern Civil Rights Movement, reads (and I quote):

Why I Admire Rosa Parks

She was brave and she stood up (but not literally, ha!) to laws that she thought were unfair. She remained in her seat.

*snerk*

Ahem.

You see? With the inappropriate-yet-impossible-to-resist punning? DO YOU SEE?!

Seriously. What else can I say? My job here is done.

Tell me what to do now, ’cause I want you back.

Well, this is certainly disheartening… I seem to have misplaced my mad blogging mojo.

Whither hast thou gone, oh mighty mojo o’ bloggafictorious? Whither?

I blame current events.

Honestly. K-Fed ain’t lookin’ so bad now, eh, family courts? Eh?

In other news, I’m pretty sure Friday Night Lights is quickly becoming my latest television obsession. And not just because of Coach Taylor –Hot Bomb Guy! Blown to smithereens! Which totally ruined pink lemonade for me! (AKA: Kyle Chandler)– and his pretty pretty hair, either. Nope. FNL is keeping it real, dawgs. That’s right, y’all. You better recognize.

But whatever. I miss my mojo. 

That’s wack.

How silly, to write just to say I wrote.

I feel like I have a gun pointed at my head and someone’s yelling, “Post, dammit! POST!”

How silly, to write just to say I wrote.

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.

“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!”

You know that moment in between asleep and awake, when everything seems to make the most perfect sense and no sense at the same time? When everything is familiar, yet… different? When personal truths are discovered, only to slip away with the morning light? Do you? Sometimes I try to hold on to it, keep it close, shut my eyes against the sunlight streaming through my bedroom curtains, but I fail. Every time. The moment flees, quick as a flash, but stays burned in my mind for a few wistful, lingering seconds before fading from my memory, replaced by longing and the knowledge that the memory of the dream, of the story, is just… right… there… Right at the edge of my mind. Flitting here and there, taunting me with moments of déjà vu, but never materializing completely, never giving over wholly to me, only freeing occasional fragments, stirring me in remembrance of what it could have been, but never what it was. A savage place! My own Kubla Khan. Lost with the morning.

That’s the moment where my imagination lives. Lately, oh how I wish I could capture it.

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.

It’s time to question not who we love, but whom.

(Disclaimer: Hey, blame Paige. This is all her fault.)

So, the other night when I was trying to explain to a friend when to use “who” and when to use “whom” (shut up), we descended into the somewhat foreign world of subject and object pronouns– nominative and objective pronouns, respectively, if you want to get all technical and whatnot. Oh yes I did just go there. Do I woo you with my pretty, pretty words? Yes? Cool. Grammar rocks! [insert “rock on!’ gesture and accompanying scrunchy face here]

Anyhoos, I was trying to explain that she would use “who” when the answer to the question she was asking could be answered with a subject pronoun, and she would use “whom” when the answer to the question could be answered with– you guessed it– an object pronoun. Which naturally begged the question, “The HELL you say?! Subject and object pronouns?! Good lord, woman! Speak English!” To which I answered, “Excuse me, but at whom are you shouting?” I mean, rude?

Suddenly, a memory stirred. Mrs. Patterman. Sixth grade. The Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off! Ah, yes! I remember it well! See, if you simply tell me that the subject pronouns are I, you, he, she, it, we, they, and the object pronouns are me, you, him, her, it, us, them, I will totally forget it the moment your mouth stops moving. It’s a gift. But if you SING it… well, that’s an entirely different story, now isn’t it?

I may not be able to tell you what we discussed in our staff meeting yesterday (without consulting the exhaustive notes I typed into my Treo between games of Sudoko), but I can unpack my adjectives like the DICKENS! And interjections? Which show excitement? Or emotion? And are generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or by a comma when the feeling’s not as strong? No problem! And I know that instead of saying Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla I can simply say HE (Phew! Thank you pronoun!). And don’t even get me started on conjunctions and their functions. Seriously. I can’t tell you how many extra credit points I earned during my elementary school years because I could recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution at the drop of a hat. Of course, it would be more accurate to say that I sang rather than recited it, but honestly, why quibble?

(And my grandparents said I was rotting my brain away watching Saturday morning cartoons. HA! Schoolhouse Rock, baby. Face!)

But I digress.

So, sixth grade. Mrs. Patterman. Woman was psycho, I tell you what. She’d make us stand in a line and march in place while we performed the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off. I am not even kidding. There was marching, people! And cadence! The horrors of public schooling in America never cease to amaze me.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” we’d sound off, rolling our eyes heavenward.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” she’d respond, giving The Eye to any sixth grader not toeing the line.

“Me-you-him-her-it-us-them!” we’d sing out, thankful it was over.

UNTIL… we noticed something. Something cool. Something naughty. We noticed that if you blended the subject pronouns together really fast, something wonderful happened. Seriously. Something magical. Try it. Sing it with a solid sing-song cadence five times fast, then you’ll see: Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey, Iyouhesheitwethey. Do you hear it? Do you? Eh? Eh?! No? Well, if you have a sixth grader at home, just give him or her a go at it. They will hear it. I’ll bet you a dollar.

After that, we would BEG for the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off, and Mrs. Patterman, gratified by our obvious desire to pursue better grammar, would always oblige.

“I-you-he-she-it-we-they!” she’d belt out, marching vigorously in place, her arms swinging like nobody’s business.

“I-you-he-sheeit-we-they!” we’d sound off, marching jauntily and giggling amongst ourselves…

Ah, good times.

But to get back to my original story (friend, who/whom debate, all that jazz, shut up), to make a short story super-duper long, and if you are inexplicably uninterested in learning the Subject-Object Pronoun Sound Off (what’s up with that?), the simple answer to the “who” vs. “whom” question is this little trick: if you can answer the question you are asking with HE, use “who.” If the answer is HIM (remember the M), use “whoM.”

So, who or whom do you love? Well, you love him, naturally, so “Whom do you love?” is correct.

I know, right? Damn those Rolling Stones and their grammatically incorrect lyrics! Who Do You Love? Really, Mick? WHO?! Way to mislead the masses, Mr. Jagger, GOSH! Next thing you know we’ll have musicians throwing around double negatives and spelling words all crazy and shizz– like substituting numbers for letters, or contracting words all willy-nilly-like, or randomly adding one too many consonants into words for literary effect, or… oh… um, never mind.

Now go out there and use who and whom with confidence! Impress your boss! Wow your neighbors! Confound your friends! Knowledge is power!

No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.

My world is PRETTY.

The strangest thing just happened. I was typing the word “clever” in an e-mail when suddenly– rrrrrrreee!– I was stopped in my tracks, absolutely certain I had typed the word incorrectly. The letters C-L-E-V-E-R suddenly looked foreign to me, like a word in a tongue heretofore undiscovered by modern civilization. Clever? It couldn’t be right. It felt so wrong. My mind tumbled into turmoil. Clever? Root word cleve? Is cleve a root word? Wait, do I even need to worry about the root word? Is clever the root word? Cleverer? Cleverish? Cleave is a word. Cleaver? No, that’s a big old butcher knife. And that other Beaver’s last name. Cleave it to Beaver! Hahaha! Is clever even a word AT ALL? Oh! Confusion! Setting in! Look it up! Quick! For God’s sake, woman, LOOK! IT! UP! GAH!

Yup. My mind is a strange, scary place to be sometimes.

Turns out clever IS a word, according to Merriam-Webster and Oxford (AND Wikipedia, where interestingly enough I also learned that the CLEVER is a type of three-wheeled car being developed in the UK, which… hey! clever!). And now? Yep. The word looks absolutely correct, completely obvious and familiar, and I am left wondering exactly what kind of freaky mental brouhaha just occurred in my unconscious cognitive process that led to my agonizing over the spelling of a simple word like clever. I mean, honestly. Kind of makes the frantic, mildly (you heard me, mildly!) obsessive-compulsive online dictionary quest seem a bit senseless now. Silly even.

Good LORD, people. Me? With the clever?

Apparently not so much.

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