Seven Miles from Yonder Shore

It's been awhile, eh? I apologize for lack of updates, lack of presence... lack of anything even remotely resembling life, really.

But oh, it's been busy. So, so busy.

Here, in fun-for-all-ages bullet points, is a rundown of the boring stuff that's happened since my last update.

• Hub and I bought a house a few days before Christmas. 
• Hub changed jobs shortly before the house situation, which caused all sorts of trouble.
• I changed jobs in the middle of March. No more two hour commute.

Now, a couple of not-so-boring things: I'm linking this blog to my Facebook for the first time ever.

Funny thing, that, because before I was the type of person who would all but throw myself at the computer to hide the fact that I was working on a story.

"NO NO IT'S PORN I SWEAR."

But, surprise surprise, that got old, or I just got tired of pretending those humongous text documents on my computer didn't exist.

So here we are. And-

If only my smile was this endearing.

 At this point, my work schedule has become so hectic that I haven't had a lot of time to work on my longer projects. This is good and bad, I guess. Obviously, it's bad because I'm not getting it done. But it's also good, because it means I spend my free-thinking time plotting ways to keep the longer projects going.

It's Conan gif day, apparently.

Also good is the fact that said free-thinking time lets me brainstorm on short story ideas. Which leads me to what else I'm doing.

Enough short stories to kill a small rhinoceros.

Last week, I submitted a 7,000-ish word short story to an upcoming anthology. I won't know anything until late June. The prompt was "alternative origins for holidays" with a heavy fantasy theme. Writing the story took a couple weeks. Editing took another couple weeks. Sending it took forever, because I would lock up and think "This is terrible why am I doing this I can't even why why why why why?!"

Just add four pairs of critter eyes peering from the edge of the bed, and it's good to go.

This happens about once a week with every story. Here's what's crazy about it, though. I have these meltdowns, in which I become absolutely positive nothing but unfiltered crap pours from my fingers. I resist the urge to self-lobotomize.

Then this happens.

"Inspiration."

"THIS WILL BE THE BEST THING EVER."

 So. Now I'm working on another short story. The anthology calls for young adult-themed science fiction. I have a vague idea of what I want to do, it's just a matter of getting the ins and outs figured out for it.

Also.

I can't believe I almost forgot this.

In June (as in NEXT MONTH HOLY CRAP), I'll be participating in a two-day writer's workshop with none other than Peter Beagle. I have to have five thousand words of copy ready to go for the workshop, so he can give me input on it.

Here's how I feel about it.

And also:

There's a betting pool going on, as to whether or not I hyperventilate, and pass out within ten seconds of getting to the workshop.

We shall see, friends. We shall see.

The low-down, skinny and whatever else you kids are saying these days

I wanted to do the world's quickest update. But then I thought, why in the world would I do that after a month of being MIA? Especially when half my updates take less than ten minutes to type?

The answer, my friend, is unclear. But here we are, and I'll try my best to be intriguing and clever, even if it turns out a little messy in the end. Like my first kiss, only without the Jurassic Park arcade machine and nest full of angry wasps (true story).

Here's the thing. I'm still working my full-time gig. I tell Hub I write full-time and have a part-time writing job. It's kind of funny, or ironic or something. I'm still not entirely sure.

But this MS? I'm having the most fun with this first draft. I look forward to working on it every day. Hopefully that will show through when it comes time to start editing it. Something tells me that sense of childlike wonder will be replaced by alcohol and lots of cursing. As of yesterday's lunchtime writing session the MS is sitting at 36,500 words. I have a rough word count goal of 90k, which I can then whittle down into a more-manageable creation. Like turning a tiger with a cobra on its tail and bees for eyes into a kitten with a grass snake for a tail and cute little ladybug peepers.

We do not have Internet where we live. It kind of sucks, because I have to go steal my in-laws' wifi or drive to my grandma's haunted house. You haven't lived until you've tried to play on Facebook while fan-danglies (I don't know what they're called, just go with it) move around on their own.

I haven't said much of anything. I apologize, and (like I have a dozen times before) I promise more content next time.

Update!

Good news!

I'm not dead!

I am in a different part of the country, though. :)

Since I last posted, Hub and I have relocated to Oklahoma. I've started a new job, and a new manuscript.

"Oh jeez, not again," I hear you saying. "She's blathered about starting and stopping and starting again so many times I want to beat her with a mackerel." 

Well hush. That kind of talk isn't constructive.

My new digs, job and commute have all culminated in me getting a new writing schedule, too. I have an hour-long commute to work, so I spend my morning drives brainstorming on how to write the next part of the MS. There's a coffee shop about a block from where I work, so I spend my lunch breaks writing there. Then, on my drive home, I think back to what I wrote and come up with any edits I might want to do when I get home.

It's a pretty freakin' sweet system, if I do say so myself.

I've also reconnected with some writerly friends, and we've discussed the idea of meeting and critiquing our stories every other week. And I still have Hub, who is as enthusiastic and encouraging as ever.

But yes. I'm back, and hopefully I'll be better about posting from here on out.

When I first met my husband, he struck me as a pretty typical guy. He was my mom's boss's son, and he'd come over to fix a busted CD-ROM. He was techy, quiet, and terribly shy. It took us three weeks to talk to each other, and even longer before we had anything even remotely resembling a real conversation. Looking back, I guess I'm lucky Mom kept "accidentally" breaking things on the computer.

Once he and I started hanging out, I realized he loved two things: music and electronics. I quickly learned he didn't like reading, but then, I could care less about building computers, so it all evened out. We'd spend lazy afternoons at his apartment, me curled up in the recliner with a book, him with his computer popped open in front of him, its guts spilling onto the counter. Occasionally we'd try to nudge across that divide - I'd suggest a really good book, or he'd try to teach me how to install a motherboard. But it never really amounted to anything; he didn't have the patience to sit down and agonize over four hundred pages, and I usually found myself playing toothpick hockey with the dust bunnies he'd clean out of his tower halfway through the installation.

About a year after we started dating, I got my own place. And when I moved, so did my library.

I've had a fairly impressive book collection for as long as I can remember. My parents used to joke about how half their storage space was made up of books, sealed in tubs and squirreled away. When he helped me move, he couldn't believe all the books that came out of the woodwork, and how I was constantly buying more.

"There are worse addictions," I would tell him. And, grudgingly, he would agree.

I think I started winning him over sometime around year three, when he would drive up and spend weekends at my house. I'd catch him pulling books out of shelves and reading their dust jackets, always when he didn't think I was watching. He wasn't a reader, he would proudly declare.

Now, three years later, I can't really remember what it was that won him over. I couldn't tell you whether it was Gaiman or Austen or Westerfield. All I remember is coming home from a late class and seeing him snuggled up on the couch, frowning over whatever book it was in his hands. At first I assumed he'd just picked it up because he was bored, because there was nothing on TV and he'd browsed himself out on the Internet.

But then he kept going. My solo trips to the local bookstore turned into the two of us wandering the shelves for hours, occasionally running up to each other, breathless with excitement at what we'd found. He'd find something new and suggest it to me, and I'd do the same thing for him.

On May 30th, we'll have been married for two years. We're still green when it comes to this marriage thing, so two years is nothing to brag about.

But when we can spend entire afternoons curled up on the couch together, the house completely silent save for turning pages and the occasional Great Dane snore, I feel like we have something pretty special.

Because even if we're not talking to each other, or holding hands, or out doing something romantic, those books bring us together.

"I'm a writer."

Two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I called myself a writer.

City council elections are next week, and as the political reporter, I worked on putting together a Q&A for the people running for the councils across the county. Everyone responded to me surprisingly well, staying well within their word count and happily providing answers to whatever I happened to ask.

Except one guy, who sent me three pages of responses.

My editor went nuts. It was 3:30 on a Friday afternoon, and I had to find a way to trim this guy's responses down. I panicked.

Finally, in a fit of despair, I called the guy and asked him to come into the newsroom. I told him we could sit down and edit his response together. Surprisingly, he agreed, and half an hour later we were sitting in the conference room, looking at a copy of his response.

I went to work on it, cutting out large sections that were repetitive or didn't have anything to do with the subject at hand. He dealt with it with a decent enough attitude, though he would occasionally wince at my ruthlessness. To him, every sentence was painstakingly crafted and the piece was honed to perfection. It was his baby, and I was telling him to choose the best parts and leave everything else out.

Two pages in, he looked at me and said, only half-jokingly, "You're loving this aren't you."

I looked at him and frowned and said I really wasn't trying to be mean. I was just helping him trim it down, and I understood how he felt.

"No," he said. "You're an editor. You edit."

"Yeah, but I'm a writer, too."

He looked at me like he was surprised at what I was saying. But at the same time, I could see the realization dawning in his eyes. I did understand. I was acting like the editor just then, but I'd been on the other side, too, watching with horror as someone chopped away at my immaculate prose.

That moment stuck with me. And since then, I've had a different way of thinking about what I do. It doesn't matter how I write. It doesn't matter that the vast majority of my works are less than six hundred words. It doesn't matter if the bones of my real novels are written on a cheap laptop while I'm in my pajamas.

I'm a writer.

And I always will be.

Progress, and lack thereof

Every year, the paper I work for does a huge special section called Progress. Last year, our theme was tied into the Census, and we did most of our pieces about people in the community who were making a difference. This year, it's about spotlighting great organizations and businesses in the county. Our first deadline, for our medical section, is Friday. Guess who the medical reporter is.

Unfortunately, this year it's also coincided with the youth fair, another big event. Guess who the unofficial youth fair reporter is.

Combine all of that with the fact that my job is busy even without special sections and big events.

I've been so busy at work that by the time I get home, I don't want to so much as look at a keyboard. That's not to say I'm not still doing other things - right now, my main concern is world building. My plan is to sketch out a rough map so I can keep track of where all the cities, rivers, etc. are in the world I'm working on. It's certainly not something that's necessary, but it's definitely going to help me with continuity.

Project number two (We'll call its working title DH) is moving so much smoother than N2N. It feels as though I've learned from the mistakes I made in N2N that made me want to hit my head against the wall. I'm still having a lot of fun writing it. And I think that's what this entire process is all about.

Anyway, that's where I've been.

Time for work.

So yesterday marked a very special milestone in my career.

I did my very first televised interview. I talked about about how a big corporation headquartered here is coping with getting their employees out of their eastern headquarters in Cairo.

This isn't the first time I've worked with our TV partner. In November, I did a couple of live phone interviews about the mid-term elections. And believe it or not, those were scarier than the Skype interview yesterday, because they were live and the Skype interview yesterday was for a pre-taped segment.

But I did a great job of freaking myself out about it.

Especially at the thought of having to wear something that wouldn't look like hobo clothes on TV. Oh. And makeup.

Ugh. Makeup.

For future reference, I'm not a makeup kind of girl. I think the last time I actually wore it was when Cade and I got married in 2009. It mostly has to do with the fact that I'll break out in hives if I buy the wrong brand, but at the same time I dislike the feel of the stuff and I prefer spending the half hour it would take to apply it in bed.

So I called my big sister and asked for her advice. I drove to Target, and with her on the phone I figured out what I needed to buy, and what color, and I went home to practice and hopefully not stab myself in the eye like I did last time I tried to apply eyeliner.

That stuff cost me $50, and that was with me trying to buy the cheaper brands. I couldn't imagine having to buy it on a regular basis.

But long story short, I got everything on without too many issues, and without stabbing myself in the eye.

Only to have Cade tell me I looked "weird... but good weird!" when he came home for lunch.

And with any luck, the rolling blackouts we're having wiped out the majority of the station's watchers at 6 p.m.