“Few projects slung my way, these days of electronic idiocy and bad writing, can perk me up and get the fireworks. This is one of the best, sweetest ideas I’ve heard in years. Nothing but the smiles of Success are due the project, the people putting it together, and the good kids who will benefit from every penny garnered. I am 100% and a bag of marmosets behind it!”

                                                                                                                 ~ HARLAN ELLISON

I am very honored to announce that my short story, “The Shroudmaker,” will be included in the Kindle All Stars: Resistance Front anthology, with all proceeds to go to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

Project Editor Bernard J. Schaffer, author of Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes and Women and Other Monsters writes:

In 1967, mercurial author Harlan Ellison created a book that brought speculative fiction into the forefront of modern culture.  Dangerous Visions and its sequel, Again, Dangerous Visions were a collection of short-stories written by as many breath-takingly talented authors that the not-too-shabby-himself Ellison could enlist.  The series went on to win multiple awards, launch the careers of numerous talented authors and solidify SF as a legitimate form of literature.It was a good idea then, and it’s a good idea now.

I am currently assembling a collection of short-stories from the best writers I can find who are either currently using Kindle to display their work, or are considering giving it a shot.  In my opinion, we are the punk rock of literature.  The resistance front.  The same type of hungry writers that Ellison found in ’67.

On August 17th, 2011, I wrote Mr. Ellison to inform him of this project, and he graciously permitted me to use the above quote for the project.

On top of receiving the blessings and awesome endorsement from Mr. Ellison, the project will include a story from the venerable Alan Dean Foster, as well as Keri Knutson, Laurie-Ellen Blackthorne, M.R. Mathias, Simon John Cox, Bernard J. Schaffer, Miles Cressman, Matt Posner, and Angela McConnell. (Dat’s me!)

The project is still OPEN TO SUBMISSIONS…but only until SEPTEMBER 15. So you’ve got four days left to add your name to the list above. 🙂

If you don’t have a story ready, but you’d like to support the project, you can visit the Kindle All Stars Merchandise Store where you can find T-shirts and coffee mugs sporting the cool logo done up by Tony Lee Healey.

Finally, if you are interested in receiving updates on the project, you can like us on Facebook, or visit the websites of our awesome promotional team Frank Zubek or Laurie Laliberte.

The book is slated to be released around Thanksgiving, so I will, of course, keep you posted as that grows closer. 🙂

Anyway, thanks for reading, and have a Happy Monday!!!

 

We used to have this neighbor named John. He was a family man, lived with his wife, two daughters, a son-in-law, and a small collection of grandkids. He was funny as hell, hilarious really. He used to knock on our door on occasion and announce that he smelled weed, did we have any weed? Um…no. Turns out wishful thinking smells just like cannabis.

John used to hang on the backyard fence and gossip with me and my husband, unloading his burdens with his usual sense of humor and candor. “So my youngest daughter has decided she’s a lesbo, but I’m hoping it’ll pass,” or, “My brother has a mistress! He says he’s in love with her. My wife would never allow that.”

He was always laughing and cracking jokes. He had a big belly like a bowl full of jelly, a shock of pure white hair, electric blue eyes, and he was always smiling.

So of course I thought he was joking.

I was in the backyard filling up the dogs’ water bowl before leaving for work. John came flying out of his house wearing only a tank top and giant boxers, his ratty too-short robe open and flapping behind him.

“Hey! Did you hear someone blew up the Pentagon?”

I took in his disheveled appearance and his shiny-bright eyes and thought maybe he finally scored some weed…or that he was making some kind of weird joke I didn’t get.

But it was no joke.

Since we didn’t have television, I jumped into the car and turned on the radio as I headed down to the train station in San Bernardino. Bill Handel was on KFI AM 640 that morning. Handel’s a funny guy, too. But the minute I heard Handel’s voice, I knew this was real. He was talking about planes and buildings and fire…and casualties.

The freeway was eerily empty for morning rush hour. Everyone on the train platform looked shocked and frightened. I didn’t know what to do really, so I got on the train and headed into work. We all clustered around a passenger with a portable TV, and I saw black smoke billowing from the top of one of the towers.

My friend Annie got on at Rancho. We rode the train together to West Covina, a little more than halfway to Downtown L.A. We called work, but we couldn’t get through to the courts where we both worked as court reporters. No one was answering the phones. We were scared.

We decided to get off the train.

My courtroom was in the middle of trial at the time, so I called my judge on his cell and left him a message letting him know what was happening and that I wasn’t coming in.

Annie and I rode the train back to Rancho where she had parked her car, and she drove me the rest of the way home. It was the only time she ever came to my house. It was odd showing her around the house we were renovating while the world fell down over and over again on the airwaves.

~    ~    ~

Today, all over the country, people are sharing their stories. Not all of the stories have to do with Ground Zero or the Pentagon or witness accounts. Most of the stories will be, “Where were you when it happened?”

Sometime today, my old neighbor John will recount to someone the story of how he ran out of the house to tell his young neighbor about the attacks and how she didn’t believe him.

Sometime today, my old boss will tell someone about how he was filling his gas tank when he decided to check his voice mail and discovered a message from his frightened court reporter.

Sometime today, my good friend Annie, who I miss very much, will tell someone about how she drove her friend Ang home from the train station and got a tour of the house.

Sometime today, my fellow Ninja writers will come over to break bread and share stories, new stories, because that’s what people do. And while we tell stories, the world will fall down over and over again on the airwaves.

~    ~    ~

Where were you when it happened?

It rained the other day. Just a little. Just enough to dampen the street and remind us Southern Californians that there is more to life than summer. I am just as surprised as everyone else.

So I checked, and it turns out the rumors are true. It’s September. Time to scuff up to the carpet and explain what happened to me, where I’ve been.

This happens every year. January through May, I’m laboring away, breaking up stones along the banks, high on the ambitions of a new year, usually on a diet… Suddenly it’s June, and I’m floating face-up in the lazy currents of summer I-spying animals in the clouds.

Calvin & Hobbes Syndrome…I sufferz it.

Even so, I’ve missed you guys! Please accept my humble apologies for falling away from the blog. It was not deliberate. Honestly, I thought about you guys every day, how I needed to remember to tell you about this or show you a picture of that. But don’t worry. I took notes. We’ve got plenty of time to go through the slide show. 😉

But we’re here…now…together…properly bathed and groomed. I assume we both have a vodka latte cup of tea in hand. So let me tell you what I’ve been up to, and I hope you’ll drop me a line in the comments and let me know how your summer went.

~    ~    ~

So last summer, I drove a million miles and discovered my superpowers and did a lot of yardwork and stuff and grew an inch on the inside. This summer, I drove a million miles, read the owner’s manuals to my superpowers, did very little yardwork (i.e., conducted a half-hearted, more-for-show turd patrol once), and grew an inch on the outside (courtesy of Starbucks’ Grande Mocha Frappuccino with an “add shot”).  🙂

I gotta be honest: this was one long-ass summer. In a way, it feels like two different summers.

On the one hand, it was the summer my daughter was 2 and half, our third summer together. She’s never going to be 2 and a half again. For this reason alone, I will always remember this summer with great nostalgia, reimagined through huge Ray Bradbury lenses, sepia around the edges…all her milestones and surprises, all the petting zoos and souvenirs and Bambi boogers, kite-flying at the beach, the hugs and kisses, duck-dodging at the lake, defending ourselves in the Great Black Widow Infestation….

Dada got to come home on leave for a month, much to the Toddler’s delight. She thinks he lives on an airplane. I miss Fat Cat, too. I keep reminding myself it won’t be long before these separations fade into the past, and we’ll remember the difficult times with much affection…mostly for having gotten past them. 🙂

But we do all right, the three of us. Dada is working hard, staying busy, looking forward to looking back at this time with affection. 🙂 Although we miss Dada fiercely, me and the Toddler get along swimmingly, laughing and arguing like an old couple…and it suits me just fine. I love spending long summer days with her, and I am mindful and grateful that I am living the life I dreamed of when I was younger.

So that’s the summer that’s on the books, the summer my baby girl will remember.

But there’s another side to this Gemini summer, one experienced only by me while everyone else slept. It was during this shadow summer, a series of endless midnights spent at my desk, that I dreamed, planned, schemed, wrote, and read, read, read!

~    ~    ~

See, back in January, I declared this to be the year. Of course, I do that every year. But this year it’s different somehow. I can’t explain it. I just know that this is the year I start my writing career, one that I will be proud of. Something big is going to happen this year.

So, anyway, I started out strong, blogging every day for a tiny audience of 7. I kept telling myself, if I build it, they will come. Having only a vague notion of what a platform was, I decided I needed to revamp my blog, make it more professional. Of course, that meant I needed a cool blog header.

On January 27th, I conducted an “epic” photo shoot and blogged about it. The next morning, I woke up to discover I had over 200 hits. At first I thought it was a mistake, but it turned out my post had been selected to be featured on WordPress’s Freshly Pressed page. Over the course of four days, I got close to 4,000 hits thanks to WordPress’s editors.

Talk about a kick in the pants! Fire down below! Running downhill! Get the hell out of my way!

That felt good! I walked around the house like I was going places, swaggering like a rock star. Good thing I didn’t shoot for rockdom. I think even a crowd of 20 cheering me on would make my head blow up so big I’d have to be rolled off stage. (Plus, I don’t think I’m hardy enough to do all those drugs…though come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind giving it a go…the singing bit, I meant.  😉 )

ANYHOO, as my 15 minutes of digital fame waned, I settled happily into writing and blogging. I had a core group of 30 wonderful readers by then, and I was really enjoying myself, trying out new and silly things.

But I must confess, at this point, I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do to achieve my epic dream. I wasn’t even exactly sure what my epic dream looked like. I mean, some things I had a clear vision of, like my name in large font across a book cover, a big fat smile on my face with palm trees in the background, maybe a nice tan.

But the path to get there wasn’t clear to me. I had it stuck in my head that the way to a successful writing career was marked by a well-done debut novel published by — well, a big-name publisher. If I was diligent and lucky enough, maybe I would sell a couple of short stories along the way to respected markets to help my chances of attracting an agent, an editor, and ultimately a publisher for my novel.

I’m sure this is nothing new to any of you writers out there. This is actually the standard template passed out to all newbies. The secret to publishing success can be summed up with this equation: (Writing+Editing+Reading)(∞) + Lotsa Luck=NYT Bestselling List.

You’d think this would make it easy. To become a successful professional writer, all I have to do is write, submit, and wait. Everything else is out of my control, so why worry about it?

Well, I’m a woman. This whole notion of lack of control over my own career and not worrying about it runs counter to my feminine nature and only makes me want to pinch someone’s head off. Even so, that doesn’t change the actual work of a writer.

So I kept writing. I submitted a couple of short stories. Nice comments, no bites though. And I kept working on The Novel. It’s all I could think of to do, but I still had a niggling feeling something big was going to happen.

Then in March, Amanda Hocking happened. 26 years old, self-publisher, sold basically a million ebooks on her own, making her own brand of epic happen. And she wasn’t the only one, not by a long shot. There’s JA Konrath, Stephen Leather, Blake Crouch, Bob Mayer, J Carson Black, John Locke, Michael R. Hicks…the list of newsworthy authors goes on and on. And there seems to be no shortage of up and coming indie writers. Blake Northcott, David Gaughran, Bernard J. Schaffer, and Moses Siregar III, come to mind off the top of my head.

Thus, I was recruited to the indie revolution, called to arms, and joined the Resistance Front. I spent the blue hours of summer in front of the computer (and under the covers with my iPhone) reading, reading, reading…just stuffing my eyeballs full of new ideas and concepts. I signed up for Twitter and Facebook and dreamt in feeds. I skulked about forums and blogs like an alligator, my eyes just above the water, my fingers taking notes below the surface, watching, trying to learn as much as I possibly can.

And I began to prepare. I changed my business plan, my writing priorities, my entire definition of what a successful writer means. I am learning so much. Frankly, my mouth has been agape all summer, I kid you not. There are so many smart people out there. I can’t wait to introduce you. I’m sure my neighbors can attest to squeals of delight and excited applause carrying through my office window at night.

Finally, after a long summer of cultivating possibilities, it is September…and I can’t wait to show you guys what I’ve been up to. I have the same feeling I had when I wrote that epic post. This is what I wrote: 

“Perhaps it’s a silly little coincidence, but when I first saw it, I had a sense of magic, of things shifting into place.  I don’t know how to explain it better than that except that it happens from time to time, and it’s never failed me before.”

Something magical is about to happen. I feel it in my bones. I’m not afraid to say that. I’m not afraid to wish it out loud. I’m not afraid of jinxing it. I’m not afraid to look for it, and I’m not afraid to find it.

I drove up Banning Ridge the other day convinced I would find a rainbow even though they’re about as common as kangaroos around here. It’s just that the clouds looked so right, and the sun was trying so hard. I drove all the way up to the top of the ridge and…nothing.

But on my way down, just before sunset, I found what I was looking for.

I have tried long and hard to figure out how to transfer my blog subscribers from my original home on WordPress.com to my new place out in the country. After much searching and conferring, I am here to report that…well, it can’t be done.

So I am double-posting this invitation on my old blog address and at www.angelamcconnell.com in the hopes that it will go out to my much-appreciated, never-forgotten, and very-much-missed original subscribers. The 404 redirect should send you down the street to the new place.

I’ve got lots of new stuff coming up for your entertainment and amusement…interviews, reviews, and dinosaurs, oh, my! And stories…lots of stories.

In any event, I am sorry it took so long. I hope that you all have been well, and that life has been gracious to you. And I hope you will stop by and check out what I’ve done with the joint, find out what you’ve missed. If anything, stop by and say hi…and drop me a link in the comments or at angela@angelamcconnell.com, so I can catch up with you. 🙂

Sometimes the best way to return from a long absence is to simply return.  And so here I am.  I’ve missed you guys.

It is 3:34 a.m. as I write this.  I just got home a little while ago.  Fat Cat is home on leave, so while he and our little one slept peacefully tonight, I sat in the middle of a crowded movie theater and watched the final installment of Harry Potter in 3D.

I thought I would cry more.  I thought I would rise to my feet as the credits scrolled up the screen in sadness, for certain had I traveled a dark and perilous road with these characters — these people — who have somehow become my family…and here we are at the end.

But it is a large family.  And family is the absolute right word, for the mood in the theater was one of celebration, a family reunion.  There was a beach ball with Professor Snape’s face volleyed up and down the stadium rows.  There were shouts of “Muggle!” and “Wingardium Leviosa!” When the bad guys were killed, people cheered and screamed!  When the good guys fell, in the hushed stillness of held breaths and watery eyes, you could hear sniffles.

Some of those sniffles were mine, yes.  But when the end did come and I stood to leave, instead of feeling sad, I felt buoyant with joy.  Why?

Because all of this, everything, the books, the movies, the outrageous merchandising, the countless millions of fan art and fan fiction, the amusement park, all the jobs created…the immeasurable hours spent by people reading it, sinking themselves into this other dimension of wonderment, the children inspired by it…all of it…all of it was because of a writer.  And I am a writer.

It always does one good to be reminded just how deep the sky is.

As my friend and I walked down the street away from the theater, he wondered out loud, as he has many times before, whether we would ever see the likes of a literary cultural phenomenon like Harry Potter again.

And I thought of all of you wonderful writers out there, drilling away the hours in front of the computer, stealing time from your family, your household, your boss, just to get the story down.

“Of course,” I told my friend.  “And I can’t wait to see who’s next.”

I thought this would be a good time to sit down and discuss a very important topic to writers…and other types of “humans”:  FOOD.

You spend hours a day hunched in front of the computer, spooling out dreamstuff to hopefully one day feed the hungry masses (let them eat cake!), worrying that you might be pouring your heart and soul into a Ground Zero incident of a massive outbreak of literary indigestion.

On top of that, you’re making life-and-death decisions for people who don’t exist in our physical plane.  You’re inventing every single detail of their world.  You’re responsible for making sense of their lives, giving meaning and shape to them, making sure that they’re formatted properly.

Being a god is tough work.  You need energy to power your story machine.  You need…sammiches.

I think the primary reason why I read Blondie after all these years is for the awesome sandwiches.  (Funnily enough, I always get a craving for pizza when I read Archie Comics.)  Obviously, I think sandwiches are the perfect writer food, and this is why:

1.  Sandwiches are agenda-neutral.  Whether you’re a committed carnivore, living gluten-free, a nothing-without-a-face vegan, there’s a sandwich out there for you.  What this means is, sandwiches are for everybody.

2.  Not only are they make-ahead compatible — saving you valuable time in the midst of a on-fire writing session — but they are robust when pre-made correctly, meaning you can make a truckload of them and they only get tastier as they await their destiny in the fridge.

3.  They can be eaten with one hand (once again, if made correctly), leaving your other hand free to peck at the keyboard (to Tweet about how damn good your sandwich is).

4.  You can have them hot or cold.  Ooh.

5.  Well, they taste good.  I like them.

Anyway, for the sake of the public good, I thought I’d put together a little tutorial for the sandwich-uninitiated, as well as for the folks who may have grown distant from the humble sandwich, caught up in their Lean Cuisines and organic fruit in a pointless effort to “grow up.”

Ahem.

Right.  So the first step in this time-saving, life-changing tutorial is to gather up all your ingredients, tools, and supplies.  I encourage you to use the proper tools, such as a serrated bread knife for cutting the bread.  If you try to half-ass it by using a butter knife, you’ll only tear the bread, frustrate yourself, and question whether or not you should have written your 300-page novel in first person instead of third.

Now what I have here is pretty basic.  Deli meat (ham in this case), sliced cheese, whole grain Dijon mustard (nectar of the sandwich gods), Best Foods olive oil based mayo (because it’s delicious), dinner rolls (going for the more frequent, but smaller portions), a red onion (a must in my sandwich book — page 11), a serrated bread knife, a kitchen knife (for the onion), and a butter knife (somewhere).

Now the point in doing this in bulk is to save you time later on.  It’s faster to make 12 sandwiches at the same time than 12 sandwiches each time you get hungry.  And it makes eating one less thing to gum up your work momentum.

So, obviously, the first thing you gotta do is flay those rolls open like the villain flays open Security Guard #2 in Scene 34.  Don’t be girlish.  Their fate is sealed.  You do them honor by cutting straight and true.

The philosophy behind my choice of spreads:  mayo for proper grounding of contents and moisture content, whole grain Dijon for the tanginess of an ironic twist.

The next part is laying out the meat like sacrifices on an altar.  You will receive these sacrifices in good favor (likely at 3:00 in the morning at your desk…the best time to receive sacrifices in good favor).

Also, you should be aware that this step often attracts elves.  They are generally harmless, but have been known to cause chronic sleep deprivation if one gets in your bed.

The “laying of the meat” also often attracts wolves.  Generally, a pointed finger and a firm “no,” will be enough protection, but this incantation will not protect your sandwich if you leave it unattended on the coffee table, say.

Next on deck is the cheese because…well, because it’s the law, that’s why.  The onions are a more controversial ingredient.  My husband is stationed out of state right now, so they are less of a controversy right now.  So onions go on.  I like red because they stay with you like a good plot twist (the same reason why they’re so controversial).

The writer’s six-pack.  How’s that for inspiration?  You can hold them in front of your sagging gut to hide it.  That’s what I do. 😉

Oh, wait!  How about the Pyramid of Power?  Yeeaah, baby!  Cater-wrap this stuff in plastic wrap and wear it on your head and you won’t be able to hear anything…which means the government won’t be able to hear your thoughts either.  Practical tips right here.  I’m always looking out for you guys.

The holding tank.  This is what you want to see when you open up the fridge in the wee hours of the morning looking for a little nosh.  This is when you know that everything in the world is right.  This, my friends, is being at the top of your game.

You are now ready for battle.

Now, here’s the most important part of all of this.  Once you’ve got your sandwiches lined up in the holding tank, properly wrapped and awaiting transport, you have to keep your movements smooth and swift.  Sight the sandwich that you’re going to eat and snag it with one hand while you — and this is important! — close the door with your other.

You will unwrap the sandwich as you walk back to your desk.  It is best to take a bite before or as you sit down and lay the sandwich to the side in its wrap as you orient yourself to your computer screen.  WRITE THE NEXT SENTENCE BEFORE YOU TAKE ANOTHER BITE.  Wash, rinse, and repeat.

And for Murphy’s sake, do not check your email, Twitter feed, or Facebook feed during the consumption of your sandwich (Ang).  Your sandwich was made for the good of your art, and it can only fulfill its full potential if consumed during the creation of your art.  Please do not sully it with viral videos of talking dogs or celebrity updates.

If you follow this sandwich method for your writing for even a few sessions in a row, you will soon discover that your prose while written during “sandwich time” is not only better than the stuff you churn out during, say, “churro time,” but more intelligent.

Anyhoo, that’s about all I’ve got to say about that.  “Dispense wisdom” — check!  I’m gonna go see what’s in the fridge.  Happy writing, folks!

…back in January, I asked readers to help me decide which blog header to use for this website, and I promised that I would eat one Nutter Butter for each vote cast.

Well, I received 72 votes.

Anyhoo, I know that this is a bit out of the blue and completely unexpected and…well, kind of irrelevant to anything going on today, but I thought you should know I finally ate all those damn cookies.

Woot.  No more for me, thanks. *hic*

*shriek!*  When did it become June?  I feel like someone just reached into my wallet and swiped a 20 right under my twitching nose.

Fine, then.  It matters not, because here in the Pink House, we are time benders.  (In my tired old brains, it’s still April.)

Anyhoo, June is going to be a busy month here on the blog.  I know May was sparse, but I was busy laying groundwork.  For what, you ask?  All in good time, my pretties.  All in good time.

In the meantime, last month’s dinosaur party is THIS CLOSE to being finished and posted.  So close.

Thank goodness, right?  Especially since the deadline for May — you remember, the 125,00-word goal? — has just rolled past.  Hence, the shriek.  No worries.  Words written in May count for May.

So as it stands, I’ve got 44,644 words for the month of May.  I did my bestest.  How did you guys do?  Were there any little word savers in the house?  Come on…cough ’em up.  They don’t gotta look pretty or nothing.  😉

Besides, the dinosaurs — being fairly pleased with themselves over the almost-finished March/April dinosaur party — have decided to up their “production value.”  Yup.  Those are the words they used.  Other phrases I’ve heard bandied about in the past few days have included “high concept,” “story is king,” “entertainment is our polestar,” and — oh, yeah — “…gonna have to work the old lady to massage the budget.” *groan*  (There went my 20.)

So if you’d like to see me continue to play beleaguered production assistant to a bunch of stuffed animals, by all means, send me your words!  Any words!  All the words!

In the meantime, I leave you with the sage words of Oscar Hammerstein II, “June is bustin’ out all over.”

*dances back to video edit screen*

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your writing is to get out from behind the computer and visit dimensions of the world that don’t depend on high-speed internet.  I decided the other day, after more than a week of being mostly inside due to most un-Springlike weather, that it was time to get our TV-wrecked, Vitamin-D-deficient hides the heck outside.

When I suggested we go hiking and take some pictures, the Toddler was all business.  She wanted to know where her backpack was, could we see the animals, and hiking, yay!

Of course, you know the dinosaurs were down for a road trip.  (They’re always down for a road trip.)  So I assigned the Toddler to dinosaur-wrangling duty, packed up the car, and pointed the whole circus towards the mountains.

What a relief!  Even though it was kind of a bad day pollution-wise — everything hazy and cast like a reddish ’70s Polaroid — with the windows down and the music up, it felt like we were riding into Summer on sun-glossed ribbons of asphalt.

I didn’t have too much of a plan, just to head to higher ground where we could walk around and possibly — but hopefully not — pick up ticks, poke around the dirt, and see a bunch of trees.  So I took my usual route through the countryside, up into the hills.  And as always, the higher our elevation, the better I felt.

It’s been a funky last week or so, just bad attitude, frustrations with time constraints, the wretched kitchen that repeatedly refuses to clean itself…but as I drove, I could feel all of that junk just fall away.

A friend recently posted a quote by Natalie Goldberg on Facebook:  “Stress is basically a disconnection from the Earth, a forgetting of breath.  Nothing is that important.  Just lie down.”

Well, I’ve been following this advice recently.  Literally.  To the T.  And it’s good advice.  But the problem with lying down is nothing happens.  On the one hand, no one gets in trouble, yelled at, or unhappily surprised…but on the other hand, nothing is happening (which, incidentally, is incredibly boring to toddlers).  You’re really just bent over from the cramps and taking a little rest.  That’s cool.

But it’s the idea that stress is a disconnection from the Earth, I think, that resonates the most with me.  Because every time I take this drive, I feel something internal and important reconnecting with Something Big and Powerful and All-Encompassing.  Everything is possible and amazing and incredible and exciting.  The future stretches ahead of us like the road.  I can’t explain the phenomenon any better than this, I’m afraid.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  But I know it’s real.

What I find most incredible though — and for which I am genuinely grateful — is that somehow, in all my blundering through life, between living in different countries, taking different jobs, pursuing different endeavors, I have somehow landed here, exactly where I am supposed to be.  And so a couple of years ago, when I took up Sunday driving with the little one, I finally discovered this road I keep following that leads me always into the Land of the Sun — for truly, the light is different up there.  There is something about this road, this trip, that renews me.  Maybe it’s the light.

Or maybe it’s just the journey.

I realize now I need the travels in my life.  I need the routes.  I need to get to know places.  I need to discover their stories.  When I take a drive up to the mountains, I’m truly a Sunday driver.  I’m not in a hurry.  Sorry to all you crazy in-a-hurry-wish-I-was-dead-so-I-wouldn’t-be-in-your-goddamn-way drivers.  Used to be one of you guys, so I understand…which is why I’m all for pulling over and getting out of people’s goddamn ways.

But let me show you the difference between driving somewhere and Sunday-driving somewhere.

Driving Somewhere:

Take Greenspot Road east, catch Old Mill Creek Road going up, hang a right a mile past where the old barn used to stand, then a left on…ZZZZ…. You get the picture.

Sunday-Driving Somewhere (fiction-writer style):

South of Greenspot, where it cuts through a weird hinterlands of scrubby desert, there is a plethora of great places to bury bodies…if that’s something you might be looking for.  And not far from the iron one-lane bridge is where I once buried a scarecrow.

There’s a wicked curve right before the fresh egg stand marked by a cross that always has flowers hanging from it.  I recently read a description online about the ghost that haunts this road.  It was pretty accurate.  I’ve seen that guy.  He stands at the right side of the road not far from that cross, facing eastbound traffic at night.  He just stands there.  You don’t see him until your headlights hit him and your heart drops into your gut.  And he just keeps on staring.  Never even flinches.  True story.

Past that, there’s the long palm-lined lane that runs through the orange orchards where a freshly-killed coyote once turned its murky eyes towards a protagonist of mine and warned her of storms to come.  I wish I could have saved her.  Also a true story.

Right before you hit Old Mill, there’s an old house with a chain-link fence, outboard engines perched along the railing like little whirlybirds.  Besides the giant Statue of Liberty and Paul Bunyan, there is a giant rooster.  In one story I dreamed that at night, after Everything Falls Apart, the rooster pulls his feet free from cement shoes and stalks across the desert to find out what happened to all the cars.

All of this is within 15 minutes from the house.  I haven’t even gotten to the scenic loop that winds through the apple farms (where there’s an old witch’s house that overlooks the farms, hanging on the edge of a cliff that marks the boundary between our world and the Sky), or the bit of road with deadly cliffs on both sides (where a character of mine once lost control of his car when a jet black deer ran in front of him), or that big buttery spread of land coming down from the Banning side of the mountains that’s so vast the cows look like smudge marks and we look like horizon to them.

Our destination is somewhere in the middle of the apple farms where there is a nature conservancy and the danger of being attacked by wildlife.  It is here where I found a leprechaun for a story, and so I am fond of the place.

When the Toddler and I finally park and plunge into the woods with camera equipment, dinosaurs, and provisions, I can feel the Earth warm and vibrating beneath my feet, my face tickled by tiny breezes from bugs winding energetic circles about us.  I can tell that the Toddler feels it too, this goodness, this reconnection with the Earth.  I can tell because she always runs through the grass instead of along the path…and that makes me incredibly proud.

This was a few days ago.  After several days in a row of driving and visiting petting zoos, feeding “bambis,” and watching clouds skid across the sky in Banning, we finally made it to Sunday, a day of rest.  A chance to get caught up.

But today the clouds were super-fluffy and the sky was exceptionally blue.  And sometime in the afternoon, the Toddler looked up at me and said, “Bye-bye?”  That’s when it finally hit me.  We’ve got Spring Fever, and we’ve got it bad.

Ah, what the hell, I thought.  The laundry can wait one more day.  And so it did.

I really thought I was scraping bottom when I wrote a flash fiction piece while clamped onto my seat by my butt cheeks as my co-Ninja-assassin-driver swerved through dead-man curves at 60 miles per hour on our way to our writer’s meeting…which is exciting if you think about it.  Once you hit bottom, there’s no other way to go than up, right?

Not unless you pry up the bottom and keep digging.

On Saturday, at our Third Ninjas Omniscient writers’ meeting, I managed to outdo myself in circus fashion once more.

Not only did I finish writing the piece while my fellow ninjas partook in our ninja feast — always held right before the readings and séances — sorry — critiques — but since I obviously hadn’t edited it, I had to convert some scenes from past tense to present tense as I read the piece.

What a noob.  I figure next month, I’ll just stand naked at the front of the room and throw down some beats and while rapping free form short story.  Sheesh.  What the hell is wrong with me?

It’s not like I waited until the last minute.  I started at the beginning of the month, right after our last meeting.  It was a great story idea, an exciting concept (at least to me).  I sat down and developed the idea, blocked out scenes, and started writing fairly quickly.  That went well…until I “solved” the story.  Once I knew exactly how the dice was going to land, the writing slowed down.  I still had a few scenes left to go.  But hey, no problem, I’m golden.  All I have to do is fill in the blanks now.  In fact — SQUIRREL!

Of course, this is the point where I got distracted by other pretties.  It happens.  A lot.  I have been accused of having a wandering eye.  (More like a lazy third eye with a cataract that can’t focus — let me read your fortune! — but that’s besides the point.)

So this is how I get myself into trouble.  I get a good way into a project and think I’m golden.  I’m the rabbit in fable, the jackass — jackrabbit — no, jackass sleeping behind the tree thinking she’s leagues ahead, the nap is deserved.  I’m serious.  This is a problem.

Because I had the file open all month and picked at it here and there, I managed to convince myself I was working on it.  But I wasn’t.  I was flitting from story to story, advancing multiple projects by nanosteps.  True, nanosteps forward are better than sitting in the same spot, but you always run the risk of energy dissipation.

Clearly the problem is that I took too long to write it.  I was writing only a few hundred words on it a day, here and there.  Granted, I’m working on other things — keeping a two-and-a-half-year-old alive and healthy not being the least of these things — but I think with a project this short, I need to just finish it quickly.  At least write two scenes on it a day until it’s completed.  I know that goes against my whole I’m-never-going-to-not-be-interrupted-ever-again-because-I-gave-birth-and-the-baby-owns-me-so-stop-crying-about-it-and-get-used-to-writing-in-15-minute-increments-and-handle-your-business approach, but even so.  The energy one has for any project is an essential element in shepherding it past the finish line.  And there’s no question that my energy waned for this story once I figured it all out.

To add to this issue, I have relied all my life on the energy/excitement/danger of an impending deadline to push me to complete projects.  But somewhere along the line, I realized that no deadline was so serious that missing it would result in physical pain and harm.  Maybe we need to bring back the “taking it out of one’s hide” penalty, eh?  That could be motivating.

The solution is simply to write faster.  The solution always is to write faster.

Anyhoo, it’s a credit to my fellow ninjas that I haven’t been hog-tied and hung upside down from the tree by my two-toed ninja shoes.  Truly, the Third Ninjas Omniscient are some of the most understanding, sweet, indulgent fellow writers I’ve ever met.  Even so…I better get cracking on next month’s sub.  I’d hate to be the only mono-toed noob at next month’s meeting.  Besides, it’ll be worth the look on their faces if I were to actually turn something in early.  (Ever see a surprised ninja?  Yeah, me neither.)