Okay, as my choices of foreign punctuation are limited on my iPhone… Ich werde Deutsch jetzt sprechen! Or something!

Darn. My choices of conversational German phrases are even more limited than my iPhone’s foreign punctuation options, so FINE. I will stick with stupid English for now. Under protest! Because it’s STUPID.

I had a point earlier. I’d better start anew.

Oh! Yes. With the afreshness of blogging. Blog Skillz 101. I’m so totally focused now. See, I’m out of practice. You know, with the blogging? It used to be that I would see something, or hear a noise, or eat a yummy pastry of some sort, and BOOM! Blog idea! But the blogging senses? When they are neglected? Underused? Cast aside, if you will? They get rusty.

I know, right?! I totally thought it would be like riding a bike, you know? Just hop back on and pedal like crazy, and VROOOM! Off you go! A blur of blonde pigtails and pink pedal pushers, with sparkly iridescent ribbons dancing in the sunlight as they stream from the handlebars…

You know, like that.

But NO. It has to be DIFFICULT. Like, what do I write about? Why aren’t those moments jumping out at me? The blog moments? The ones that practically scream, “Blog me! Good LORD, what are you waiting for?!” and I’m like, “Okay! I will! Shut up now!” and they are all, “Fine!” and I’m like, “Fine!” and then we kiss and make up because, honestly, it’s silly to fight with those moments because they are only trying to HELP.

So I am going to have to consciously LOOK for those moments and practice BLOG writing (as opposed to the OTHER type of writing I do all day long, which, incidentally, is one of the main factors contributing to my blogging slackage… just so’s you know).

So, yeah. Basic Blog Skillz 101. If anyone has any suggestions for curriculum, please let me know. Except if you’re going to say AI recaps because WE ARE NOT SPEAKING. And I don’t have cable, but that is secondary to the We Broke Up thing. I might be amenable to Chuck recaps, though, because DUDE. The TWoP Chuck recaps? Suck. I know, right? It’s a major disappointment in my life. Right up there with the fact that I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier. AND I didn’t get accepted into the Evil League of Evil. HUGE disappointment there, obviously.

But I’ve registered for the class and I’m a totally quick study– and a bit of a kiss-ass, truth be told– so I should be fine! It should be fine.

Right?

Right?

Right?!

So… now all I need is a few days of vacation and a freaking CLUE as to where I can find my mighty mojo o’ bloggerificness–which appears to be missing, yo?–and we’ll be good to go!

*sigh*

Whither has thou gone, mighty mojo? Whither?

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

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?

And, wow… There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for the mental picture THAT just conjured, I tell you what, but that is neither here nor there so I will persevere.

See, sometimes? I believe I am awesome. Chock full of the awesomeness. So awesome I can barely stand it! Chuck Bass awesome! I think, “Hey! How is it that I am THIS awesome?!” I write! I sing! I play my guitar! I make vidcasts! I enter contests! I jump out of planes! I swing on the trapeze! I teach my kids awesome things to do and say! And I post videos such as this in which I totally bestow my awesomeness on an unsuspecting, yet obviously pleasantly surprised, public! Because I am AWESOME! I mean, have you SEEN all my friends on Facebook?! I’m only saying.

And then it all falls apart.

I wake up one morning, fire up the iMac, click to my YouTube page to watch my awesome Dr. Horrible Evil League of Evil application one more time, confident in the knowledge that I WILL be chosen for the once-in-lifetime opportunity to be included in the special features section of the super awesome Dr. Horrible DVD. The video starts up, the intro music sends shivers of– what? excitement?– up my spine, but when my face pops up on the screen, my heart drops, freaking plummets, I tell you, and I think, “Oh. My. GOSH. What have I DONE?” I panic. I wish I could take it back. Take it all BACK. I’m not awesome! I’m a fraud! A loser! I made a music video while wearing pink goggles on my forehead! PINK GOGGLES! On my FOREHEAD! And I can’t SING! Or write MUSIC! What the HELL was I THINKING?! OH! EM! GEE! What if Joss Whedon actually SEES this?! I suck I suck I SUCK! (I totally suck.) Not to mention that OTHER people have, like, tens of hundreds of friends on Facebook! Which is a LOT!

And then I think of that quote from “When Harry Met Sally” when Sally tells Harry, “…AND I’m going to be forty!” and when he asks, “When?” she sobs, “Someday!” and I totally get it. Oh, I SO get it. Because it’s there. It’s just sitting there, like some big dead end. And time is passing and what am I doing? Really? Twittering? Jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Playing around with my guitar? Filming myself acting the fool, not to even mention sporting pink goggles that totally clash with a blue-accented black rash guard? When I’m not even at the POOL?! Right?! There is no WATER for the pink goggles, people! How is that awesome? Do I really think I’m funny? Do I truly believe I have anything to offer? That I will ever write the great American novel or even have any kind of future as an observational humorist? Well?! DO I?!

At this point, no amount of affirmation, self or otherwise, can penetrate the gloom. My heart hurts and I wish I could crawl away and hide. I stop writing. I stop creating. I lose myself in (quality!) television and (totally awesome!) DS video games. I avoid novels because they make me believe that– perhaps!– I could write something even better and why set myself up like that? Do I really want to be That Person? The one who deludes herself? Like those super horrible American Idol contestants who no one ever had the cajones to grab by the shoulders, give ‘em a shake, and sternly say, “Seriously? I love you, but you SUCK at the singing. For real! Even Paula thinks you suck, which HELLO?! Now cut that shit out!”

On one level, the rational one, I understand this is a phase. A mood. A momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless. Awesome light.

It’s moments such as this that I need to drag myself up off the floor of my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party, give myself a figurative “Pull it together, fool!” slap across the face, and look around. Take an interest in those who weren’t on the invite list to my party of one. TGIM. My kiddos. My family. My friends. Because even in the depths of self-pity, yes, even then! I understand that they don’t need any kind of proof of my awesomeness. They see it in me, the awesomeness, or see the lack thereof, yet they love me. Unconditionally. Yup. Pink goggles and all.

And that? Is totally awesome.

Twitter is the Devil and must be destroyed. Also, Pokemon Diamond. Because ADDICTING?!

I’m only saying.

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.

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.

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.

*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.

That is all.

…

WHAT?

I just told you! Blockage?! Keep up.

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?

*sigh*

Shenanigans.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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

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.