The Black Beret Way

So, I'm taking an online writing class, and in it the teacher talks about "The Green Beret Way" -- but, I'm thinking I'd much rather do things the "Black Beret Way."

What is this? You ask. It eez, simply put, the verra French way.

Allow me to explain, I have French prints, French handbags, French stickers, even a (partly) French grandaughter...but, I've never actually been to France. It's okay, for now, it allows me the latitude to make-up things about France and being verra French. It eez, how do you say...liberating, oui! And, I like to think, a completely French way of doing things. My French way of doing things: The Black Beret Way.

Un: Laugh every day. Every sacre day, no matter what. Laugh loud and long -- head back, chin up, as if you didn't have a care in the world.

Deux: Eat something indulgent, maybe not every day, but certainement, once a month, preferably from a French bakery, and preferably involving some kind of chocolate and cream. C'est Bon!

Trois: Wear fabulous shoes (unless they kill your feet, then they are no longer le fabuleux soulier) great shoes make you feel sexy, and they don't kill your feet -- well, maybe if you have to walk in them...just kidding.

Quatre: Try something new -- go somewhere you've never been -- perhaps not France, but maybe a museum, museums are tres Francais and a perfect place to pretend you're French. Wear black with fabulous red shoes some red lipstick and smile knowingly at the security guards. This works well for la fille or le garcon. Tres chic!

The rest should be made-up as you go -- be fearless, be brave, be verra French! And remember: *Quasimodo rit, and you should too.

*Quasimodo laughed. One of the few French phrases I remember from 5 years of French...Oui!

Those Darn Kids And Their Crazy Music

I've been feeling a little...stressed (I hate writing that -- I mean, I'm not the President or anything), and I've been trying to figure out how to rid myself of said stress without starting smoking (again) or drinking (excessively) or eating (too many) Frito's.

But, today, as I was driving to work, I put in a cd that someone had made for me a while ago -- I had forgotten what songs were even on it, but I slid it into the console and as the first strums of the guitar came through the speakers, I instinctively turned up the volume and as the song reached the chorus I cranked that puppy even louder.

I should have been pulled over for some kind of noise ordinance violation.

I turned into a head-banging, scream-singing, grunge-rockin' momma. I know. Pretty scary.

But, here's what happened -- I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized why those crazy kids like to listen to ear-drum-bleeding loud music -- when the music's that loud, it squeezes everything else out, there's no room for stress, or doubt or sadness. It's just the music, and you have to surrender yourself to it, for that short amount of time -- just the sweet, sweet sound of whatever kind of head-banging, ear-bashing, mind-blowingly loud music you choose.

And you'll see, for those 4 minutes or so, you'll be in a kind of hard core bliss. I'm not saying your problems or stresses will be gone, but, maybe after that mini-vacation (like band camp)you'll be able to deal with them just a little better.

The song I listened to is: Everlong, by The Foo Fighters. What's your favorite de-stresser? I've posted a link at my facebook page for Everlong -- it's awesome, but you have to play it reallyreallyreally loud.

Working The Jelly

Honestly, sometimes I think I'm hip and cool and all that...and then I remember I'm a 50 year old with a granddaughter. D'oh!

So, I've decided to ramp-up my hip-ability and my friend Don is helping me -- or trying to help -- he's decided to add a cool-word/verbiage a week to my vernacular. Oh, so not cool.

Workin' The Jelly: to have your plans jell. To be actively working towards a goal. I like this, I like to think of my work-in-progress as workin' the jelly, or workin' my jelly.

Plus it makes me laugh. Always good. It makes me imagine my Muse dancing and shaking and really, really workin' her jelly, all for the greater good, but her workin' it, makes me work it. See?

So, now I'm trying to think of all the ways I can help my Muse work the jelly...because we all need help. Even Muses. So, I've asked some friends to help me brainstorm, we'll all be workin' the jelly. I think my Muse is happy.

Fashion Sense

So, I was gonna write a post about fashion, but it didn't translate well...I sounded mean, and judgemental, and maybe patronising. I'm not those things. Am I?

I wanted to sound helpful, and friendly, and maybe even joyful -- 'cuz, I want everyone to look good and feel good about themselves. No, really, I do.

How's this?:
Wear longer jeans! Your legs will look longer aaaand, you'll feel good.
Wear clothes that fit you! Not too little, not too big...just right. You'll feel better and look better too.
Look outside the black! Brown, red, aubergine -- they're all good colors.

I know, still kind of patronising. I thought the exclamation points would help. I just don't want to sound mean girl-ish, or, rather, woman-ish. And everyone should feel comfortable in their clothes, but I'm not talking sweat pants comfortable -- okay, maybe, if you're at home and there's no chance someone will see you, no chance, got that?

I know we all want to be loved for who we are and not how we look...but, it kinda feels good to look good.

Middle-ing Something

So, I had commented on facebook how it felt good to finish something, and then I went on to say, we never middle something - we start something, we finish something, but we never middle something.

My nephew, Andrew, showed me the error of my thoughts. He says he middles everything, or sure he blames it on adult ADD, as if that...what, oh - hey - look at that, I never...huh? Right. So Andy says he might have a slight chance of finishing something if, IF he takes his ADD medication that lasts about 6 hours and the project only takes 4 hours. Slight chance. Might finish it. You get the idea.

So, I was wrong, middleing happens. We just don't talk about it, unless we don't want to help you move...hey, look at the time, I gotta go, I'm - uhm - right in the middle of something.

What are you middle-ing?

Ooooh...That's Right, I have a Blog

D'oh.

This is me two weeks ago...oh blahblah blibbidy blah, I have a blog for a reason and I should post more often...blibbidy blah...what a load. I mean, I'm sorry I was busy.

I. Was. Busy. I forgot. Okaaaaay, sheesh, I didn't forget. I thought about it, and then I winced, and then I went on with my day. Just like people do with all kinds of stuff they know they should do but don't.

So today I did the other things I'd been wincing about. Doctor appointments - the usual girly ones (you know the ones I mean - yes you do) and the brand new shiny one that I've never made before...drumroll please...the colonoscopy! Thunderous auplause, etc. etc. etc. blahblahblah. Here's the thing with a test like this - or any test: mammogram, pap smear, colonoscopy - people luuuurve to tell you their horror stories.

And then she tightened that machine down on my breast so hard...I thought I'd explode - I had bruises for a month. I pooped for two days...I couldn't leave the house.

You get my TMI idea, right? My friend from work, Laurie, says she'll send me something after I've had my colonoscopy - she says I wouldn't want to read it before. I think that's a good thing.

All of this reminds me of when I was pregnant close to my due date. I was in labor for forty days with no doctor, only a team of dentists...same sort of thing, don't ya think?

Why do we love to tell medical horror stories?

Indubit (bsphlll) ly--hahahahahahahahaha

I was lucky enough to become a 10 year old boy tonight. Not just any 10 year old boy, but the friend of my 10 year old boy.

We were watching Monday night RAW--wrestling, duh-uh. And we started announcing the matches in fake British accents and using as many farting noises as we could fit in when appropriate.

Hilarity.

The British stuff all started a few days ago when we went to the park--there were a few people playing basketball--parents and kids--Nathan wanted to play, so I said, "Ask them."

He said, "Couldn't you?"

I said, "What would I say?"

He said, (with feeling and a fake British accent) "This young lad would like to play some b-ball with you, would that be alright?"

So I almost cry, because I'm laughing. So. Hard. And I say, "Borgy, my step mom would have said 'young lad' but not with a British accent--and she would probably do something like that for you...but I'm not gonna--you have to ask."

So this goes on--we finally find a random basketball and start playing at the other end and then attract numerous other players--because everyone wants to play.

But my point is the fake accents started earlier in the week. Tonight we perfected them.

RAW had a "Many Men In The Ring Match To See Who Would Face (the scum that is) Randy Orton in the WWE blahdeblahblah match (I can't know everything) so my ADD (don't we all have that?) was kicking in and I said, "There's way too many guys in the ring--I can't concentrate."

Until Nathan started using his fake accent again and then I helped him:
Young lad, could you throw the Miz out--oh thank you.
I say, John Cena, get up off your arse and whoop some other arse.
Young lad, unhand him.
Oh my look at John Cena's jiggly arse.

Then we progressed to: Indubit(bsphllllph)ly --farting sounds became derigueur in addition to our accents--we added them to everything. Until only Triple H (whom we called the lad with three H's) and John Cena were left in the ring.

We did this until it was bedtime and we had completely irritated Dad. And I realised as I was laughing--snorting--with my 10 year old that it's fun to be 10. More people should try it. He said goodnight to Dad and I went to tuck him in--maybe read a little (it's late after RAW) but we kept on with the accents and farting noises--seriously you had to be there--here--it was hilarious--well, maybe you had to be here.

What are you surprised at liking? Have you ever acted like a 10 year old, when, in fact, you weren't a 10 year old?

The Thinker

My Dad graduated summa cum laude from the school of journalism at the University of Minnesota. He went on to a career in finance but he was still a writer. He never sent anything in to a publisher, but he was still a writer. I remember saying to him--Dad, why don't you send this in to someone, The New Yorker maybe? And he said--It's too personal, I don't want some stranger reading this stuff--it's none of their business. But, he was still a writer.

He had great stuff too, maybe I'm biased (of course I'm biased--it's written into the rules) but I know great stuff and this sir, was great stuff. Personal? Hell yes. But isn't all writing personal on some level? I didn't have the argument back then to convince him to send his stuff in, but if he were alive today I'd like to think I could cajole and maybe convince. Or bully him if necessary.



I read one of his poems at his funeral, 13 years ago--my sisters and I displayed some of his other pieces, some poems, some just ramblings, all art--he's probably still mad at us...except, no one there was a stranger, so maybe he's okay with the whole thing.

Don't know what got me thinking about my Dad--except I always think about him, but it's not a birthday or an anniversary. It is almost Father's Day, but I think what it really is, is baseball season, it was his favorite sport--a thinking man's game, what better sport for a poet. And I would give anything to have him be able to see another grandson play ball.

He'd kill me, or worse yet ground me, if I ended with one of his poems, but I will end with an Al Kennedy quote: "It's alright...well, it's not alright, but it's okay." This was him trying to make me feel better about him dying of cancer--what a mensch.

So I was thinking I should probably write about writing. I like to call myself a writer--I figure the more often I call myself that, the better the chances are that I'll actually believe it--and I started this blog with the intention of it helping my writing in a nebulous sort of way.

If I whine about it, it (the writing) will come.

That seemed valid.

So my work in progress, or WIP (or WHIP--as in it's thrashing my behind) was a bare bones rough draft--choppy and lacking in exposition, but the creeky skeleton of it was down on paper...until the fatal flaw was pointed out to me--twice, damnit. I bravely dissagreed, because, really, what do published authors know anyway?

Oh.

I read my rough draft again, and again, and again. Cue arrow shot--straight to my writerly heart.

I. Had. To. Start. Over.

Over. And not just, oh well I'll write a new fresh story, no. I love these people, and I had no idea what "You have to kill your darlings," could encompass. A turn of phrase here. A whole loverly scene there. M-o-t-i-v-a-t-i-o-n...killed--changed.

And then, to twist the knife, as I'm re-writing my darling, I realise there are things that need to be changed again {{{again}}} because I've decided something worked better here. And my whole being wants to go back to the beginning (because, it's a very good place to start--or so I've been told) and change the things that need changing so my story will make sense right now.

But I don't. Because I know--know--more things will change and then I'd have to change the first part that leads to the second part and the party of the--you know what I mean. So, I stop myself from going back and just move forward.

And I realised, tonight, that that is a cool analogy for life.

You can't go back and change the first part, just so this part makes better sense--you can only move forward. And make this part--this right now part--the best part it can be.

Mid-Year Resolution...Or Half-Time Gooooal!

I reallyreally wanted to write a blog, have a blog, be a blog. No, not that last one, but I do have a lot to say, just not a lot of people to say things to. I'm lying--I do have lots of people I can talk to, just not a lot of people who will let me soliliquize. Sure, I could sit on my back porch all by my lonesome and utter profound statements to the birds (and we know those statements would be for the birds) but all of us want other ears to hear us...Yes?

So, my point, and I do have one, is if I wanted this, why don't I use it?

Hmmm...good question.

I like writing (and by that, I mean I hate it) I like having a captive audience (spotlights, please) and I like to get things off my chest (because I have no chest to speak of, it can't hold much and it needs to get emptied frquently) so you see this whole blog thing is a perfect fit, unlike my bra.

So, my half-time goal is to blog at least three (3) times a week. See what happens...will I run out of things to talk about? Will I be boring? Will anyone even care?

Who knows?

All's I know is I feel better being able to vent, whether anyone's listening or not.

I don't really have a question for anyone...but feel free to vent.

Time and Time Again--It AIn't Flying Anymore

Where does time stand still?

Hospitals. That's where. They're in a different time zone altogether--with their own time theories. Time does not move here the way it does out there. It creeps and crawls. Their clocks, external and internal are wired for an alternate universe--a slooooooow universe. Hospitals are the relative you always have to make allowances for, if the party's at 3:00--you tell them it's at 2:00, or 1:30. But with hospitals you have to pad the time. If surgery is scheduled for 10:20, you should add 2 hours.

Just to be on the safe side--or sane side. I wish I had remembered this fact. Luckily I did remember my laptop--and the waiting room has wireless. Thank you, oh great ones of this place outside of time...

So my older son is the one having surgery. Broken jaw. Ow. I won't go into details, suffice it to say, the details are incredibly stupid and only achieved by young men who are legally adults, but so not adults.

The last time I was waiting for him to come out of surgery was 21 years ago, he was 3months old and I was nowhere near the level of calm I am now--and with good reason. But, obviously he survived. And so did I. We'll both be fine after this too, I'm just not sure which one of us will have the longer recovery time.

I don't know if I have a question. I know, what was the hardest lesson you had to learn?

If Time Really Does Fly, Why Doesn't My Baggage Ever Get Lost ?

Okayokayokay...soooo it's been awhile since I've blogged. And I realized I hadn't blogged in awhile, but when I saw the date of my last post, well, that's just not right. Right?

But, we all know life and...other things happen that makes our time fly. So, why can't it fly first class? I think sometimes it does, we just forget about those times.

Lately I feel as if I'm letting it fly by, or maybe as if I've been grasped by the hand and pulled along--with no control as to any destination.

So, today, my Mom, Joan Kennedy (not that one) gave a workshop at the library where I work and I was reminded in a non naggy mom way that I do have control over my life and my time. I'm the damn pilot. D'oh! I had forgotten that fundamental fact. It's my life. A mental slap to the cerebelum, or wherever, is a good thing, something we all need every once in a while. We all just get pulled into the flow of what's going on around us--a centrifigal force of crap--we forget that we are the pilot and the navigator of ourselves.

And that "baggage" we carry with us, well...let's toss it out over the Bermuda triangle. Ba-bye.

So, what's it like where you stand--are you the pilot? What could you do to become the pilot?

D'oh!

It's been over a week since I've posted...time flies.

So, I've been thinking about friendship, new and old, and how much I love it. That sounds sappy. Luckily, I don't care. I seriously don't care if I sound sappy or Pollyana-ish or, or any other metaphor you can come up with that, obviously, I cannot. Friendship is everything.

And by everything I mean, everything. I have different friends, I have friends since birth (literally--we were introduced at birth) since junior high school, since high school (lost and found) since moving to Rhode Island and back to Minnesota, since working at the library, and since I've been on line. And they all fill a certain need--or want--or empty place--or whatever.

You know what I mean.

My husband is my friend, but seriously, do you think he wants to talk cute shoes...or for that matter other cute dads at the school carnival--I think not. He doesn't even want to talk about books. Sheesh. Some friends fill many needs, some just a few. All are important.

All are important.

During my first marriage, I felt as if I had few friends. My long time friend Jeanne was one and if you can count my sister Patty, I had two. I was cut off, I won't blame it on him, because, no matter what, I allowed it. That felt yucky to say.

But now, I feel as if I am a magnet--or a bully: be my friend. Now. When I met one of my best friends, Michelle Buonfiglio, she came into the library and asked about romances--I pounced on her--not literally, we don't like each other that way. Anyway, she kept coming into the library and we kept talking. And then we saw each other at school. We were shawked.

Seriously.

Then I finally said, here's my e-mail, we should go out to lunch. I made her be my friend.

I've always been happy for my one time aggressiveness. Never had I done that before. Maybe in kindergarten (not the e-mail address, cuz that was in the olden days when there was only fire and string) but I may have made someone come over to play Barbies--I think she was invented (I'm joking, of course she was, we're the same age, Barbie and me.)

So my point is, I love my friends and will do anything for them. Seriously.

What would you do for your friend?

Manic Monday

Such good intentions.

I'll take a shower and get ready for work before my youngest leaves for school, then I'll be ready to fly out the door to get the grocery shopping done, get back home and have plenty of time for writing before I actually have to be to work.

D'oh.

I should know better, I've done this before.

I have a habit of trying to cram too many things in too short a time span. I think it keeps me lively.

Or crazy.

Really, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know, it sounds stupid--but I'd rather have a lot to do--I think I actually get more done that way. Too much time equals too much time to waste.

Okay, I might be lying, I do that sometimes. Because I also like to have great expanses of time with nothing to do but sit and read.

Aaah.

Which would you rather have too much time or too many things to do?

Much Ado-doo About Nothin'

That's right--nothin'. Nada. Zero, zip, zilch, as my Dad used to say.

I'm stuck. I got nothing. I'm talking about writing--I got plenty of other stuff, but writing? Plenty of nothing. I know, I know, if I just keep writing something magical will happen and all kinds of ideas and plot twists shall appear.

It's just that...I don't wanna.

I mean I do, but I don't. My husband jokes with me and says, "You want to have written a book, but you don't want to be writing one."

Maybe, maybe in a way he's right except when it really is magic and the words fly from my brain to my fingertips onto the keyboard and appear on the screen. Then, then I want to be writing a book.

To be writing, or not to be writing, that is the question--whether tis nobler...oh, what the hell--I chose to be writing.

It might make me crazy, but at least it keeps me from going crazy. And I have to prove my husband wrong (not about the 'have written' just about the not wanting 'to be' writing).

The Wheels On The Bus Go Round 'N Round...

Hey, I've got an idea, I'm going to take the 10 year old on a bus ride to visit our good friends. It will be exciting...

And it was, the first hour. The last seven and a half hours? Not so much so.

The DVD player didn't hold its charge, I couldn't get the laptop connected to the free WiFi on the bus, and we forgot Bunny. He has never gone to sleep without Bunny, literally. He talks about maybe he's too old for a stuffed animal, but I think when you've been with someone your whole life they're more than a stuffed animal, they're your friend.

The main point is all these things are tied to the bus for him--it is, in fact, the bus's fault that Bunny was left at home, that the DVD player didn't hold its charge and for no internet--well, that's true, it is the bus's fault. Now the cool thing is we played a couple card games (we're talented) and 20 questions and looked at cows and horses along the way--he actually did great with hardly any electronics.

But he's sworn never to set foot on a bus again, luckily, because the bus was so dang cheap I was able to book us on a flight home. He's really excited about it...

Of all the best laid plans what have been your worst ideas?

Enough About Me, Let's Talk About My Shoes

Let's talk fashion.
And just so you don't think I'm a totally uncaring daughter and mother with the whole fashion thing--everyone's doing so much better. Mom's home with a medication change and son is on an over the counter thing for a couple weeks. We're sleeping through the night again baby.

So let's talk fashion. So my girlfriend Michelle, Michelle Buonfiglio, knows the importance of good shoes. And when I say good shoes I don't mean good for you (except for the soul) I mean Good--as in, "Oh my Gawd, those shoes...they take my breath away," good. She came into town this weekend and did she have a great pair of shoes to show me. I won't do them justice describing them, plus they're her shoes to describe or not. But my point (yes, I always one) is that she understands they are the foundation of her outfit--which is also great and has nothing to do with the next paragraph.

Here's the thing with shoes, you can have an okay dress, but pair it with fab shoes and it raises the value on the dress--like a really good school district does for your house...really. But the same can be said in the opposite, which I will:

great dress + okay shoes = blah--or hiding behind the buffet table all night.

My Mom, always said, "Older boys might like you."

No, that's not it.

"Spend more on your accessaries than on the rest of your wardrobe." That's it. You can fake a lot of things, but you can't fake a great pair of shoes.

Sammy, and I Don't Mean The Good Kind

I know we all love a good sammy, here's one of my faves, Clive Owen, moi, Daniel Craig.

Now that's a good sammy! But I'm not talking about good sammys today. I'm dealing with some serious stuff lately...and so I shouldn't have even joked about the Clive/Daniel thing, but I also know I need some humor, cuz that's how I roll.

My Mom is a powerhouse, an 86 year old public speaker, author and fashionista. If you happen to say to her, "Gee, I should paint my living room." she'll show up with a ladder and a roller before you've hung up the phone.

My youngest is a different kind of a powerhouse, rarely sick (and I mean rarely) plays baseball, football, soccer and wrestling. A funny kid who's just as willing to laugh at himself as anything else.

Within the last 5 days my son has had a mysterious ailment, sometimes waking him up in the middle of the night, which naturally leads to me waking up in the middle of the night. During this same time my Mom was admitted to the hospital. So between Urgent Care and hospital time and a Pediatrician appointment, I'm feeling...sandwiched.

How do you cope? I try for lots of humor and no vacuuming. But the running has fallen off and I know I need to keep up with the excersize, 'cuz that will help me cope as well. But tell me how you cope.

Is It Live Or Is It Blah Blah Blah

I decide to get on the treadmill, 'cuz that's what I do now...actually get on the treadmill, but my son (youngest) has already become one with the beanbag (it's the world's largest beanbag) and is playing his WWE video game in front of the tv in the excersize/game room. Normally I like to watch what I want to watch, but he's got dibs so to speak, so I let him continue as I start to run.

He ends up creating his own wrestler on the game...whom I become disturbingly attracted to. Now maybe it's the endorphins from the running or maybe it's the hormones from the "are you in menopause yet" or maybe I am just nuts. But I'm thinkin' this guy is hot.

Now I know people have been attracted to cartoons before, Jessica Rabbit comes to mind, but it got me thinking about all these virtual games and websites and I wondered how many people had an alternate life and love on the web or in games.

I'm sort of freaked out by it, but at the same time I kinda get it. No hassles, no worries, the perfect mate...sheesh, what fun would that be?

Would it be fun?

A Little Dab'll Do Ya

I'm a dabbler.

I love lots of things. I don't want to necessarily learn how to do them correctly, I just wanna do them.

So I have tons of fabric swatches--sometimes I sew pillows, sometimes purses, sometimes Halloween costumes. Rarely do I use a pattern...I don't need no stinkin' pattern.

I have beads and wire and findings...and all kinds of beads and wire and findings. Sometimes I make things--earings, necklaces, wine thingies. Sometimes they even look good.

But I'm not only a dabbler in "crafts" I'm also a dabbler in knowledge. I don't want to be an expert on anything, I just want to be able to talk about anything. I had a social studies teacher in 11th grade who would give us "cocktail party" facts, little nuggets of obscure knowledge...I would eat those facts up like finger food. I still can spit out a few, even if we are bereft of cocktail parties these days--although Michelle Buonfiglio and I could make any school function a cocktail party, no we didn't carry flasks, we just made it be about chatting and mingling.

But I digress.

I love knowing a little bit about a lot of things, you'd think it would be frustrating, but it's not--it's comforting to know I could, at the very least, interject some little gem into any conversation.

Would you rather be an expert on one thing--or a dabbler about lots of things?

No, Really, This Time I Will

So I bought a shiny new book--Book In A Month--by, Victoria Lynn Schmidt, Ph.D. I'm hoping the Ph.D. does the trick. Now see, there's my problem, I know there's no trick to writing a book, no magic beans, no fairy godwriter. It's work. But that doesn't stop me from searching for the elusive trick.

What I'm hoping for is that I'll use this book like a class, with a class schedule and class assignments...I figure, what have I got to lose? A month? I lose those constantly, all the time, like every year. Plus I signed up to write a little article on a craft book for the August issue of our local RWA chapter's newsletter and I chose this book.

Kinda backed myself into a corner with that one.

So this is the first day of class--I realize I should start at the beginning of a month but...I don't want to. So it's today--week one. I'll give an update every week (another way to make me do it)let you know what I think.

Stupid or what?

Schlepping to Creativity

I feel as if my brain has been dipped in molasses and then dredged through flour and then stuffed back into my skull.

Not pretty, not pretty at all.

I have a rough draft done of a contemporary--very rough. Unfortunately there were "problems." Like the hero was not acting heroic, and I'm not just talking about being a big bad alpha bastard, I mean he had a bad goal. Badbad goal. So I had to re-work that...then I pretty much had to re-work everything else.

But not on the computer--I can't. That's where I'm stuck. I can write on the yellow legal pads and the 3x5 cards, I can even write on napkins, but set me down in front of my laptop with my manuscript open, well, I can't do it. And the stupid thing is, I know the more I say, "I can't do it," the more I'll believe it.

D'oh!

So, I like him with a good clean heroic goal--but what if I could have redeemed him even with the bad stuff, would that solve my problems? Or, do I just need to quit whining and get my butt in front of the laptop with the manuscript open and the cursor blinking?

I'm not here, I'm there...

I'm at Riding With The Top Down today, join me for feng shui fun and a prize or two.