My first real interview

If you missed my interview on Yahoo, here's a chance to check it out.

Interview with Romance author Erica Lucke Dean

musical chickens

Of all the times I've said, "I wish I'd gotten this on video," this one stands out. I really wish I'd gotten this on video.

I've decided the best entertainment in town is found in my sun room where our mother hen, Henny Penny, is raising her three little chicks under the watchful eye of my drooling Mastiff. Now, this is not my first rodeo...we've raised chickens before...but this is the first time we've done it with an actual chicken for a mother. Last time we brought home a box full of chicks and put them in a pen with a heat lamp, food and water, and listened to them peep the night away as they cuddled to each other to sleep. The dynamic has changed with the introduction of a parental figure. And I'm suddenly not feeling so bad about the way I raised my kids.

Like an episode of Benny Hill, or the keystone cops of the silent movie era, the chicks ran around the pen, like cartoon characters in fast motion, as the mother hen spun around in a circle, trying to corral her young under her wings for nap time. Keeping the two unhatched duck eggs between her legs, she made several attempts to sit, but the chicks continued to run circles around her as she squawked and flapped her wings at them. I had tears running down my face as I watched the show, wondering how long before the babies got tired, or the mother gave up. When she finally got them relatively settled, they took turns jumping on to her back only to slide down again.

I had no idea baby chicks were such rebels.

I'm going to try to catch them on video tomorrow. I can't promise anything. The little buggers move pretty quickly, but I'll do my best. You've just got to see this.

Until the next time...I'll be watching the show.

the ghost whisperer

Next time I decide it's a good idea to have an online chat with an Australian psychic in the middle of the night, please stop me. Not that he isn't lovely...he really is (I think my mother might adore him and she's never even texted with him.) And the conversation was fascinating beyond words. But it's a windy night, I have mice in the walls, and now I'm laying in my bed with the covers up to my chin trying not to see shapes in the shadows as I jump at every single sound.

Just call me Miss Scaredy Cat. I'll freely admit to being somewhat terrified. Ok...a lot terrified. But did I mention I was talking to someone half a world away who could see things inside my house I'd never mentioned before?

Yeah...scary.

All I wanted to do was help our resident ghost. The sweet little girl who, for whatever reason, hasn't left the confines of my house since who knows when. I just wish I'd tackled the job in the light of day.  Everything looks brighter in the light of day, right?

It's my own fault...decades of scary movie watching...and scary book reading...and all the other scare inducing things I indulged in back when I was young and stupid...have turned me into a great big chicken.

Bok!

Ok, so nothing bad happened. Other than a tornado warning that shook me out of bed at the crack of dawn. And speaking of tornado warnings, I never thought I'd find myself in the position of deciding what I was more afraid of...being ripped from the ground by a giant vacuum cloud, or trudging down the stairs into my scary basement.

The basement won out, and I rode out the storm in the comfort of my living room. Hey, I'm still alive, aren't I?

As far as the ghost? I've been told her name is Charity, and she's likes me. I mean, what's not to like, right?

Until the next time...I'll be talking to my ghost on sunny days only.

new babies!

After weeks of watching our sweet little Henny Penny sitting on eggs we weren't sure would ever hatch, we found a peep in the cage with her. Then a little while later, there were two...and three. Well, I think there are three. She's still hiding them under her wings and since we only ever see two at a time, I can't be 100% sure. But I'm thinking there are three. We'll know in a day or so when they get big enough to wander freely through the cage.

I know it's still, technically January, but there's just something about new babies that makes me long for spring. And maybe having a few new chicks around will make the wait seem a lot less unbearable. And while I'm at it, a few potted orchids would brighten up the place. I could bake frosted flower shaped cookies too. Put away the last of the Christmas stuff.

Oh, yeah...the Christmas stuff. That really needs to be done before I jump to spring, doesn't it? I've officially moved it to the top of my to-do list. Put away the last of the Christmas stuff before it's time to take it back out again.

And then I'm making cookies!

Until the next time...I'll be watching for more chicks to hatch!

tell me tuesday

“What would your parents be horrified to know about you?”  

That was the first question I noticed.  The funny thing was I couldn’t think of a single thing about me that would make my parents freak out.  Or even surprise them.  I’ve always been a bit strange, and certainly my parents would have noticed by now.

I guess you’re wondering why I was trying to come up with embarrassing topics to shock my parents with.

We can blame my buddy, author Rachel Thompson.  Remember her?  She of A Walk in the Snark fame, and the new Broken Pieces. She has this awesome Twitter meme (rhymes with theme) where you share your innermost secrets and send them out like modern game of “pass it on”. It’s fun, sexy, interactive…part interview, part guest appearance…and it’s called #TellMeTuesday.  She didn’t have to ask me twice.  I was thrilled!  All I had to do was to reveal fun things about myself that nobody else knows. 

So…what did I share?

I sing dirty show tunes.  I admit it.  I change around the words to the oldies and voila…seriously dirty Cole Porter.  Not that Cole Porter was without a little dirt of his own…but I don’t doubt that he rolls over in his grave every time his Anything Goes melody accompanies my naughty lyrics. 

I read Twilight fan fiction…obsessively sometimes. Oh shhh…like you don’t have your own quirks. And if you want to know the truth, I read the back of my shampoo bottle in the shower. I just like to read. So what if I like to read about sparkly vampires from time to time?

Do I dare admit my deep dark fears? 

Not if that means my readers will start the same sort of campaign they undertook when I wrote about not being a hugger.  More than two years later, people still come up to me at the grocery store and go in for the hug.  Not total strangers…but lucky for me, most of those readers wouldn’t recognize me at the grocery store anyway. 

Oh, and best of all..I recently found out that Ivie, my character in Suddenly Sorceress isn’t the only witch in my background.  My great aunt uncovered one of the original Salem witches in our family tree.  How cool is that?  I plan on spreading that info around wherever I can.  Wait until my kids find out there is a very good reason why I become a witch every Halloween…and just possibly several days a month during the rest of the year. 

I officially have an excuse.

I’m sure there’s more about me you don’t know…but hey, Tuesday comes once a week!  What do you have planned for next Tuesday?

Until the next time…I’ll be sending up the PMS signal in the sky. I’m feeling a bit cranky.

and then there were five

Something is rotten in the state of Georgia.

In the past week alone, two of our ducks have vanished without a trace. First one, then the next day, another. If both were male, I might suspect my husband of participating in a midnight culling of the flock. But as it turns out, we're missing one of the girls, too.

Then last night we heard the screeching of a chicken in distress. This morning a pile of feathers near the coop and four missing hens alerted us of a serious problem.

A poacher on the farm!

My creative mind immediately went to work imagining who could be attacking my precious poultry. After quickly ruling out my husband, since the missing birds presented a loss rather than a gain for us, I began lining up the possible suspects in my head.

The most logical answer was a coyote. They're bold, resourceful, and sneaky. The fact that I hadn't seen one of the ragged beasts running around the neighborhood didn't entice me to rule them out, not at all. Nor did it rule out the likelihood of a bear. Bears like chicken (at least, Yogi does) and we live in the mountains, so they're a distinct possibility. Someone mentioned hibernation, but I can't let that steer me away from the probability of a bear in our midst. Especially since I've discovered they don't get much more sleep than I do, and like coyotes, are prone to resorting to theft.

When I still didn't have a solid lead, I looked to the skies for an answer. An aerial attack was definitely something to consider. Owls, hawks, maybe a really big flying squirrel. But with little more than the pile of feathers and a growing list of victims to go by, I found myself at a bit of a loss.

Then a crazy thought occurred to me. A thought so wild, so out there, I just couldn't let it go.

A garden gnome.

You've seen them...the creepy little elfish creatures with beards and pointed hats. As if that's supposed to lull us into thinking they're good and kind. Gnomes are not shrunken Santas. They do not spread joy, merrily chuckling, Ho Ho Ho, while passing out gifts to good little girls and boys. No. They're conniving, scary, and evil. And some of them carry knives!

I would sooner have a sculpture of a velociraptor chewing off Bono's head (yes, the guy from U2) in my yard than a garden gnome (and to the guy who challenged me to work that into a blog post, pay up!) Unfortunately for me, the neighbors don't agree. They have several. And apparently, they aren't keeping good track of them, either.

I guess the only thing I can do now, is set a trap. But how does one trap an errant gnome? Can they be lured with candy or German folk songs? It's time for me to do some research. In the mean time, I guess we'd better put the chickens in the coop at night. And it might not be a bad idea to keep the cats inside too. I wouldn't put it past a gnome to snatch a cat right out from under our noses. Drunken gnomes are well-known for chasing pussy.

Until the next time...I'll be offering a reward for the capture of the guilty gnome.

Look at me...Look at me

Ok, about a million years ago--or 30, give or take--Sally Field gave this awesome speech when she won the Oscar for Places In The Heart. She finally felt as if people liked her. Well, Sally, I get where you're coming from, because today, they like me.

I was nominated (several times, in fact) for two pretty awesome blog awards. Ordinarily, I pretend I didn't notice I was nominated just so I don't have to write the corresponding acceptance blog, but since two of my favorite people shared the nominations with me in the span of two days, and I know they're not going to let me skirt away without acknowledging it, I figured I'd better suck it up and say, thanks.

So yeah, to DC McMillen and Lorca Damon (and everyone else who was kind enough to toss my name into the ring) much thanks.

So, let's get to the awards, shall we? First, I was nominated for the Blog of the Year Award, for excellence in duck watching, ghost busting, and spider shrieking, amongst other things. I am honored, of course, because who wouldn't be? It's like saying I'm the cream of the crop, and besides being a farm pun, I like cream, so yeah...cool. 

Second, I was nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award. This is due to my tireless dedication to embarrassing myself so you don't have to. I've made the sacrifices, proving once again why no one should ever attempt their own bikini wax, or move to a secluded and very haunted farm with zero experience in farming. I was the one who walked you through pole dancing in a seedy part of town, and dared to out George Lucas as God. Me. I deserve this award!

Uhh...sorry...got carried away there for a second. This is why I never accept these things. Well, that's one reason. The other reason is because I'm expected to share seven secrets about myself. Stuff that would make my mom blush. And trust me, that isn't easy to do. The woman taught me every dirty joke I know.

Ok, so...seven things? Are there even seven things about me I haven't already blabbed to the world? We'll see.

1. This isn't really a secret, but I have a 75% chance of wearing my underwear inside out. I don't know why this happens. I swear I check them before pulling them on. I think it might have something to do with my tendency to be a bit hyper. Clearly, they spontaneously flip somehow during the day.

2. Anything having to do with noses freaks me out. Don't blow your nose, make nose sounds or refer to nose things in my presence. I will cut you...or resort to my uncanny ability to make yakking sounds the likes of which will have you yakking within minutes. Ask my family. They will NOT challenge me when it comes to gross out sounds.

3. I have a bizarre knowledge of useless trivia and I know how to use it. If you need to know this for college, that's not what I'm taking about. If you need to know for a Brady Bunch or Bewitched drinking game, I'm your girl.

4. I can write in cursive as well backwards as I can forward. A college boyfriend was convince this meant I was a witch and broke up with me immediately. What it really means is I can pass notes in class without getting caught. It may look like gibberish from the front, but flip it over, read through the back, and we're in business!

5. I'm actually very smart. I know...I play dumb exceptionally well, but it's all an act to fool people into letting their guard down. The minute they're not expecting it...BAM! I'm spouting out diabolical formulas that will make your head spin.

6. I've never broken a single bone (that I know of). It's true. As clumsy as I am, I've never broken a bone. I've had several concussions, countless bruises and sprains, but never actually broken anything. That has to be some kind of record.

7. I liked Twilight. I mean, in an obsessive, read it over and over and over again sort of way. Don't judge...we all have our quirks. I just have more than my fair share.

And now I will name those blogs I wish to bestow the honor upon. Some of my most favorite blogs of all the world. Honest.

Kelly Stone Gamble because she's funny, Ciara Ballintyne because she eats dragons for breakfast, RachelintheOC Thompson because she is the queen of snark, Amberr Meadows because she goes places and takes pretty pictures, and Justin Bog because he just might be my non-romantic soul mate. I would nominate DC and Lorca again, but since I want them to continue writing guest posts for me, I won't subject them to a repeat so soon.  Oh, what the heck...I nominate them again!

So there you have it. And now for the rules portion of our show (cut and pasted straight from the last person who forced me to write this.)

All the fine print is below:

Blogger of the Year:

1 Select the blog(s) you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award
2 Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award.
3 Please include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award – http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-awards/blog-of-the-year-2012-award/   and include these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!)
4 Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them
5 You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience
6 As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…

Very Inspiring Blogger Award:

1. Display the award logo on your blog.

2. Link back to the person who nominated you.

3. State 7 things about yourself.

4. Nominate 15 bloggers for this award and link to them.

5. Notify those bloggers of the nomination and the award’s requirements.

jurassic pig

Well, this is it. The end. That last hurrah in a life cut far too short. I never got to reach my diet goal. I never found the secret of life. I never solved that damn Rubik's cube.

With imminent death approaching, my life flashed before my eyes, and all I could see was the juicy bacon cheeseburger I ate last week. Somehow I knew I was being punished by karma. An eye for an eye, a pork butt for a...you get the idea. Stuff like that just doesn't go unnoticed by those who notice stuff like that. (Did you get any of that?)

So, perhaps I was exaggerating, slightly. Clearly I didn't die (I'm still blogging, right?) And yet, it was a close call. I can't stress how close I came to meeting my maker. And I'm afraid George Lucas would have been so ashamed of me. I said such awful things about the most recent Star Wars movies (but let's be honest...it wasn't his best work. And Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? Aliens? Really?) But Mr. Lucas aside (see this post if you're wondering when George Lucas became God) someone was smiling down on me again...probably enjoying the show far too much to pull the plug so soon...and I survived, using nothing more than the sheer strength of my sharp wit and keen intelligence. And a really big bowl of pig feed.

Let me just say this, never get between a piglet and his dinner.

The squealing began before I'd even stepped off the porch, their dirty little snouts scrunched up in delight as they watched me approach. They were all sweetness and joy as they risked electrocution, again and again, to poke their faces between the slats in the fence to greet me. But the instant I unplugged the power and threw my leg over the side, they turned on me like pack of ravenous velociraptors.

I've easily seen Jurassic Park hundreds of times, and I can say with certainty, a hungry piglet even sounds like a velociraptor.

I don't know why it surprised me that they had rows of tiny sharp teeth, but when they gripped onto my sweatpants, tugging and pulling me toward the ground, I was nonetheless shocked to discover this fact. My cute little piggies have fangs! Ok, I didn't actually see them, but I assume they have teeth. And their little paws (or hooves, I guess) pressed into me as they attempted to climb up my legs. Apparently, they love their slop. 

I managed to escape their clutches just in time, thanks to careful placement of their food, and my stealthy retreat from the pen. Ok, lied again. I wasn't even a little bit stealthy. I tripped over an orange on the way out, but I did manage to stay on my feet the whole time. I plugged in the fence, then got the hell out of there to write it all down. I shudder to think how close I came to being eaten by food. Oh, the irony!

And don't bother asking...no, I didn't get this on video. I was too busy not dying to record it. It would have been an awesome video though. I'm sure of it. And who knows...I may get another opportunity. Maybe I can trick...I mean convince...someone else to feed them while I record it. Yeah...that could work.

Until the next time...I'll be staying out of the pig pen.

coming soon!

Here it is! The official announcement!

Coming soon from Red Adept Publishing, To Katie With Love by Erica Lucke Dean

That sounds so good...

duck fight!

My husband woke me up this morning to tell me he thinks we're going to need to "cull" two of our male ducks. Yep, you got it...he wants to off two of the boys. Of course, I was morally outraged. What have my duckies done to deserve a death sentence?

Apparently, they're fighting. Fighting? Our kids did far worse than that to each other when they were younger and no one was calling for their executions. Ok, so maybe that's a lie...executions were occasionally ordered, but never carried out. Honest...they're all still alive! But the poor duckies may not be so lucky.

So, despite my desire to stay cocooned within the warmth of my layers upon layers of blankets (and at least one very warm dog) I climbed out of bed, pulled on a coat and my slippers and stepped onto the back porch to see what he was bitching about.

I didn't get far when I heard the mad quacking coming from the middle of the yard. There in the center of a circle of ducks were the two males, violently bumping chests, beaks flapping and biting at each other. Surrounding them, the rest of the ducks were chanting, "Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!"

After a quick translation, I decided they were yelling, "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!" And that's when I decided ducks were not much different from children after all, and ordered (at least for now) a stay of execution. I mean...I haven't even had a chance to catch this shit on video yet!

Until the next time...I'll be carrying my camera around at all times!

has anyone seen my...?

Is nothing sacred? I mean SERIOUSLY! I get that house guests like to snoop. I get that stealing a squirt of that expensive perfume is often too tempting to resist. Rifling through the medicine cabinet is a cliche for a reason. And eating the last piece of cheese or the last ice cream sandwich just doesn't seem to phase anyone these days. But damn it, there are some things you just don't touch!

Yet...someone did. And herein lies the mystery.

My name is Erica, I am a victim of theft. But due to the delicate nature of the crime...or rather the specific item stolen...I find myself wondering if I should just pretend it didn't happen. I mean, how the hell would I begin to conduct the investigation? I'm pretty sure I can't blame this one on the ghost, I'm afraid to blame it on my kids, and who wants to approach a house guest with a scathing accusation that would easily make a sailor blush? And honestly, do I really want to admit to owning such a thing on the off chance they didn't do it?

So, here I am, like a pissed off, frustrated Nancy Drew, with no one to interrogate.

I feel like I should put up a notice on the refrigerator...

Dear thief,

And you KNOW who you are! Remember that thing you took from me? I want it back! I want it back now! And I want you to wash it thoroughly before you return it. Consider using bleach. This is what I'm going to do...I'm going to turn my back and when I turn around, I want to find my thing back where I left it, and we will never speak of this again. Oh, and seriously...what would make you think it was remotely ok to take something like that? Is nothing sacred?

But then again, I sort of want to pretend it never happened and chalk the whole thing up as a loss. I mean...do I really want it back after someone else has used it? It's almost like it cheated on me. Will I ever be able to look at it the same way again? I think we've completely exceeded the five second rule at this point.

I'm beginning to think this story will be marked down with Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster as one of those great unsolved mysteries of the world.

And I guess I'll be buying a new vibrating toothbrush tomorrow.

Until the next time...I'll be watching my inbox for the comments to come rolling in.

letter to the editor

Somewhere up there, someone is looking down on me with a smile on their face. Does this mean they're about to laugh at me? Or have I finally managed to earn a bit of goodwill?

Well, it's a mixed bag, really. I still have electrical outages all over my house, including the heat pump, the stove, too many outlets to count, the lights going both upstairs and down to the basement, and the entire basement itself. So yeah, I'm a running joke for someone...but at the same time...as if throwing me a bone in the face of adversity, I managed to score an editor who keeps the same crazy hours as I do.

And let me just say...I love her. I do. I know you're supposed to lie in public and tell the world how much you love your editor, while planning their gruesome death in  your next foray into fiction. But not me. I'm not lying when I say, I love her. She hasn't fled the country to escape my quirks, she actually responds when I send her a Facebook chat message (even my own mother ignores me half the time), and she has no qualms with debating the merits of my book, often coming to metaphorical blows when we disagree over key points.

Ok, that's kind of a lie. So far her ideas have been pretty good, and she's managed to pull some of my best work out of me, and hey, that's sorta her job, so yeah...she rocks.

Now, if I could only find away to banish the word, patience from her vocabulary. I have no idea how I'll pull that off.

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for my next round of edits.

the lizard in the wintertime

So, my circuits are still out. I have lights...in most rooms anyway...but very few outlets that work, and still no heat pump. Thank goodness for my husband's zombie preparedness or we wouldn't have the kerosine heaters to keep me from freezing to death. And blankets...lots and lots of blankets.

Which is why I was in the basement...in the dark, because apparently my life is a scary movie wherein I would need to go into the basement with the lights out after dark. Don't look at me like that...I need blankets. And socks. And damn it, clean underwear.

So, I grabbed my husband's head light. You know the ones you strap on your head with an elastic band so you look like a damn miner heading into the coal mines? And I grab the Maglight for good measure, because when you're going in to a dark scary basement, you can't take any chances.

Even though I do have stairs that lead to the basement from inside the house, I've been forbidden to use them. Yes, forbidden. If you know my track record for accidents, and you've seen the horror movie worthy staircase leading to my basement, you would completely understand what I mean when I say FORBIDDEN. My husband doesn't want to come home and find me dead at the bottom of the stairs, laundry basket over my head and clothes scattered in my wake. So yeah, I'm taking the stairs that run on the outside of the house.

And did I mention my lights are out? And it's been cold...and raining...and all the other ingredients for a slasher movie are present and accounted for as I pull on my boots and my head light (making everything look like I'm wandering through the Blair Witch Project) with my overflowing laundry basket. And since my hands were occupied with the wicker basket, I tossed the Maglight inside and the eerie glow coming out of the sheets just added to the creepy ambiance of scary shadows. 

The stairwell was filled with wet leaves making my heavy footfall sound like I was walking over potato chips, but I knew it was likely slippery and therefore precarious...for me.

When I reached the bottom and struggled with the key to open the ancient door, I noticed something moving by my feet, and screamed. Apparently, not only do I have ghosts, mice, and no electricity, but I also have Godzilla in my basement. The size of the lizard looking up at me from the doorway was startling. His long blackish green body (with bright yellow spots) looked almost artificial in the eerie glow of my head lamp but when I touched him with my toe, he moved.  I immediately looked for feet because for some reason, a lizard (still scary) is much less heart attack inducing than a snake. Don't ask me why. And what the hell is a lizard doing in my basement in the wintertime? Don't they hibernate?

Anyway...

When I finished my laundry and was safely back inside the empty house, I decided to take a shower. Because, yeah...scary basement, sticky webs, lizards...but when I opened my shower curtain, a giant black spider looked back at me.

This set me over the edge, because when it comes right down to it, giant lizards, possibly rabid mice, dark scary basements and ghosts in the attic have absolutely nothing on the big black spider in my shower.

Screaming through the house on a wicked tear, cursing my husband for not being home to kill it. Cursing the cold, and the old, and the damp...I'm sure my neighbors were certain the cast of the Jersey Shore had moved in, with the language I was spouting. I put a randy band of pirates, drunk on rum and women, to shame with that language.  And hey, I just can't find it in me to be ashamed. I had a rough day. And I haven't had much sleep. And you just didn't see the size of that spider.

Until the next time...I'll be calling the exterminator...the electrician...and the ghostbusters.

this (damn) old house

I have no TV. No lights in my bedroom. And it's completely dark going up the stairs...and in the upstairs hallway...and down to the basement. The circuits on the main level of my house have blown, including the one for the heat pump in the basement.

Let's just say, living in a 90 year-old haunted farmhouse has it's moments.

I have no idea what happened this time. I'd like to blame the ghost. No really, I'd like to blame the ghost because I suspect that would be the easiest way to fix it. Calling the ghost guys to get them to kindly ask the spirit to fix my electricity would be so much better than getting a crew of electricians out here to rewire the entire house. That right there is the scariest scenario I can come up with. 

And it would have to be the on the coldest night of the year.

I know...I'm spoiled, so say my friends and family living far north of here where the temperatures dip below zero on a regular basis. But unless your zero degree temperature comes with no indoor heat, I don't want to hear it. If you can pee without it freezing between your body and the bowl, I still win. I have no heat, and my space heaters are now rendered useless because the outlets are fried. I have 2 kerosine heaters running so I can feel like I'm huddled around a burning trashcan in the middle of a post apocalyptic movie. (No offense to anyone reading this from their spot huddled around a burning trashcan...you totally win this round.)

I guess I'm going to have to pause in my edits to shower and clean my house tomorrow before inviting the electrician to poke around my circuits. (I didn't mean it that way...get your mind out of the gutter. It's too cold for those kinds of jokes...really!)

Ok, it's never too cold for those kinds of jokes. Carry on.

Until the next time...I'll be freezing to death.

content edits, I have conquered thee

My first round of edits is done and turned in. With a 48 hour turn around time, no less. Not too shabby, if you ask me.  Then again, the lingering effects of a serious lack of sleep in the past 48 hours may stay with me longer than the feeling of accomplishment.

Eh, it was worth it.

Now the waiting begins. And as far as I'm concerned, this part is worse than the sleep deprivation, the alienated family members, and even the painful discovery of far too many adverbs peppered throughout the book (setting up a literary game of battleship to wipe them clean from the pages.)

No, patience is not my friend. And maybe we could have been friends, if things had been different. If being patient didn't require such...well...patience.

And save your sermon on patience being a virtue. I've heard it all before. I have many good qualities, but that isn't one of them. And I'm okay with that. I've made my peace. Accepted my shortcomings, as it were. I can't keep beating myself up over things I can't change. Like my genetics...my fingerprints...the exact shade of hair color I buy each month to fool the world into thinking my hair isn't going gray.

Sorry...I'm rambling. Are we there yet?

Until the next time...I'll be waiting (im)patiently.

the tale of the zombie writer

A body needs sleep. That should go without saying. But it's when you don't get said sleep, that things become interesting.

My editor called me last night to go over my content edit for To Katie With Love. And since both of us are self-proclaimed night owls, we spent the better part of four hours on the phone discussing the changes needed for my book.

Four hours.

We laughed, we debated, we discussed (I'm sure we got off the subject more than once, we're women, it's what we do best), but still...four hours on the phone. Not that I'm complaining, there's little I like more than talking on the phone, especially when the topic is my work in progress.

But when we hung up at 3 am, I knew I should have crawled into bed and thrown the covers over my head. That's what I should have done, but that's not what I did. Instead, I started working on the edits that should realistically take me at least a week to complete (in the best of circumstances) and found myself more than half way through when I finally passed out around noon, getting just under five hours of sleep before I was back at it.

I don't think it would shock anyone if I said I needed a  nap. And believe me I do, but I find myself wanting to push through and finish before daylight breaks again. And if I know me...I'll pull it off. I might look like death on the other side, but hell, as my mother never said...beauty is pain...and life is about sacrifices.

Ok, so maybe she said something about leaving the cap off the toothpaste or making sure to pee after having sex. Which is really good advice to prevent bladder infections. But, perhaps, not applicable to this conversation.

Maybe I should take a little nap after all.

Until the next time...I'll be editing!

this little piggy stayed home

Ok, I've had it with this house bound crap. You can only observe farm animals in their natural habitat for so long before you're ready to pull your hair out in boredom and frustration. For the first time in two weeks, I didn't feel like sleeping the day away. For the first time since Christmas, I was ready to leave the house for more than a trip to the drugstore. For the first time since God knows when, I wanted a damn cheeseburger.

After a back and forth volley of words worthy of center court at Wimbledon, Mike and I piled into the car this afternoon on a quest for a juicy burger. And yes, I could have simply made one at home, but where's the fun in that? How does that help my whole, stir crazy, problem? It doesn't. So off we went.

In another place and time, I would have just headed to the local fast food place and grabbed a greasy burger and been done with it, but I'm past that. I don't want fast food. Or greasy, frozen burgers. I wanted something epic. And in our little tourist town, on a Sunday, epic means crossing county lines.

Forty minutes after climbing into the car, we were driving around the next biggest town, looking for an open eating establishment that didn't have golden arches or a stupid crown. After finding almost every suitable place to be "Closed on Sundays", we even cruised the parking lot of the local Pizza Hut only to discover they weren't even open for business yet.

My stomach was threatening to eat itself when we finally rolled up to Fatz eatery. I'd never been to Fatz before, but just the facade told me I would find what I was looking for, and fortunately, the looks weren't deceiving.

I scarfed down a bacon barbeque cheeseburger and some fresh cut fries (with a frosty cold Diet Coke, thank you very much) and my sour mood faded away with every bite.

I won't say it was a wonderful weekend. I won't say I'll never be grouchy again. We all know it would be a total lie. But I will say, I feel so much better now and it's all because of a juicy burger.

It's the little things that make life worth living, you know?

Until the next time...I'll be back to my old self again.

ghost in the attic

I have a ghost.

This is no secret, I've said it before. My ghost is the fairly non-confrontational type. She (we're pretty sure it's a she) likes to open and close doors, bounce invisible balls, and pad around the floors above us late at night. Mostly, she's quiet. I often forget she's even there.

Not tonight. Tonight, she was active. She was moving things around in the attic.

When I heard the boxes sliding around, I immediately assumed my kids were upstairs looking for something. Oh, I thought they'd gone out for the evening, but who else could be moving boxes around in the attic? So, I called out to them, wondering what they'd forgotten.

There was no answer.

So I looked outside and discovered their vehicle was missing. No kids at home. But the boxes moved around again. So I yelled to my husband to go up there and check things out. (Because, that's what he's here for, right? As a guy? Work with me.)

He got up and headed for the stairs before remembering the lights don't work over the stairs...or in the upstairs hallway. A coincidental happenstance that never fails to freak the family out. The wiring is old, but how convenient is it the lights don't work where the ghost hangs out? My thoughts, exactly. 

The husband decided not to check out the upstairs after all. And I guess I couldn't blame him, but it got me thinking. If my ghost is so interested in moving stuff around in my attic, why doesn't she just go down and organize my basement? That's a place that could use some serious organizing, and it's sorta scary down there. She's already dead, so what does she have to be afraid of, right?

I might have to get her to put away my Christmas decorations first...you know...work up (or down) to the basement gradually. Hey, it's just an idea.

Until the next time...I'll be steering clear of the upstairs until daylight.

and the edits continue

Have you ever had one of those perfect moments? You think, “Nothing could beat this…I wouldn’t change a thing.” Then a little time goes by and you glance at the photos from that perfect moment to realize the black eyeliner you thought was stylish actually made you look like a rabid raccoon. Or the over-sprayed hair that could withstand the gale force winds of a hurricane reminds you of a giant space helmet on your head. Or worse than that, someone else looks at your old pictures and tells you how bad you really looked on prom night.

Fashion is a fickle friend.

But I’m not talking about fashion (I don’t even look at those old pictures of me if I can avoid it) I’m talking about words.

More specifically, I’m talking about my book, To Katie with Love.

I find it almost painful when I realize the words I was married to, chained to like an activist to a tree, have to go. (Or words I never thought of need to go in.) Oh, it's not so bad, really…the story is amazing (if I do say so myself) but any story can easily be hidden by the over-use of words…sort of like the beauty hiding under a layer of black eyeliner and hairspray. And sometimes, after several rounds of edits, those words you ditched for whatever reason need to come back to solve a mystery you accidentally left unsolved. So, once again, I’m taking Katie back to her natural state, stripping away some of the make-up that takes away from her beauty, and adding back some bits I took out last time I edited. I like to think of it as giving her a literary boob job.

And trust me when I say, don’t let anyone convince you to write a book without a good editor. You will never be willing to part with the things you really don’t need without someone holding your hand along the way…or rather dragging you by the hand along the way. I've been blessed with several wonderful editors in this process (my newest editor is about to put me back to work, and I'm both traumatized and excited to do it.)

Don’t ever let anyone tell you the creative process is a simple one. Oh, it’s worth every drop of blood, sweat, or tears along the way…but it’s not easy.

But neither is anything worth going after.

Until the next time…I’ll be editing!

a cupcake by any other name

I made the classic mistake of telling the world I made pie. I put it right there on my Facebook wall...and tweeted it too. What seemed to be an innocent comment on my awesome baking talents ended up being a debate. About pie? No...about cupcakes. Cupcakes, you ask? How did you get from pie to cupcakes?

Well, I'll tell you...it wasn't an immediate jump, but it was most definitely a status hijacking.

It started out with a comment about the merits of pie versus cake. My own husband would prefer pie over any kind of cake. He told me he could have cake any day, but pie was special. And then the conversation took a strange new direction when a writer friend posed the question, "Is a cupcake still a cupcake if you don't frost it."

Well, yeah...of course. It's a sad little cupcake without any decoration, but it's still cake. In a cup. And therefore a cupcake.  My friend vehemently disagreed. It was her contention that the cupcake loses its status if not finished with the frosting. Well, as you can well imagine, this statement caused an outrageous back and forth commentary between no less than three other writer friends, none of them short on words, comparing the differences between cupcakes, muffins, biscuits and other assorted baked goods. The debate sunk to levels no sober baker should ever sink to. And the poor, unfrosted cupcake was raked over the coals for crimes against baked goods.

I maintain my original position that a cupcake is not defined by frosting anymore than a woman is defined by a man.  Or something like that. Cupcakes of the world unite! Defy societies rigid requirements and go bare. Demand equal rights with the cupcakes with frosting upon theirs.

I don't even like frosting that much. But hey, I just wanted to talk about my pie.

Until the next time...I'll be skipping the baking topics for a while.