Critique Groups Revisited

I have blogged about belonging to this fantabulous group called "The Sassy Scribes" which comprised me and two other engaging, funny, intelligent women who would drive to the middle of nowhere, where some excellent pie was served--and we'd discuss writing.

This was, by and by, the best critique group I've ever belonged to. Anything that has eating as a central subplot definitely helps with the feedback I get back on my chapters.

In September 2007, The Sassy Scribes disbanded, because one of our central members (the PUBLISHED critiquer--full of brilliant Mary Poppins ideas and a kind word) had to move to Chicago. We tried to talk her out of it. We tried to convince her to take us with her. We cried.

By September, I had brought a fourth member to The Sassy Scribes, a new hot writer who I knew as Sin and who knew me as Hellion. After the disbandment, we decided to press on. We met in our main home town (so about an hour closer) and held our important meetings at the local El Maguey's. Over the excellent cheese sauce, we'd discuss important issues like: the cheese dip stain I'd immediately get on my shirt, whether anyone noticed I'd tried to lick it off, and if the waiter looked like Ranger from the Stephanie Plum books. About two hours later, we'd eventually discuss our chapters, the fact our Muses were on vacation with no forwarding address, and how we wouldn't have this problem if Kris--the missing member--would come down her and flick the whip a few times.

Today though, I think we did a little better than usual. Sin bought dipping cheese from Walmart; we discussed her erotica; we discussed her series (both sets); and we discussed GMC. We ate more cheese. We plotted goals for 2008. We discussed the online critique group and what we needed to arrange as the rules so we'd be moderately successful at it. We discussed how to get cheese dip stains out of my shirt--and luckily no one cared that I licked it off.

Dynamics change. Sometimes you're forced to be more leaderish than you're used to. Sometimes you have to find more like-minded folks--they're out there--and start over again. You just keep plugging...and eating cheese dip. Eventually you'll win.

Christmas Procrastination

I'm the worst present giver ever.

I blame my parents. They were awful about presents too. I inherited it honestly. I shop last minute, if I shop at all; I usually tell you what I got before you get to unwrap it; and that's if I wrap it and it's not in a Walmart shopping bag with the tags still attached.

This year, despite my love of Christmas (I do usually have to decorate and make Oreo truffles and give out one wrapped gift), I haven't done jack shit.

Oh, I've bought stuff for me. Dec 4, POTC: AWE came out on DVD, and you bet your sweet ass it was pre-ordered back in October. Dec 11, HP5 came out on DVD, and I ordered that before you could say, "Expelliarmus!" and blast me away from the keyboard.

This is frustrating for friends who want to buy me things they know I like, but I beat them to the punch. On the upside, if there is a pirate or HP reference whatsoever on the item, I will bounce up and down, screaming like a lunatic, announcing to the world: "This is the best gift ever!"--and my friend will point out. "They're just pencils. Have you even looked at the other items? I bought you a Ferrari!" "Look!" I'll scream, "Will Turner's face is right there! Isn't he dreamy?"

But enough about my gifts. It's December 14--and have I shopped?

Yes.

Finally.

After weeks and weeks of procrastinating. I ordered some stuff. Only one item for me (don't worry, it wasn't on anyone's radar that I even wanted it; nobody would ever guess), and the rest for friends.

Family gifts, yeah, I still have to do some actual shopping. But that's not the point--the point is: I might actually have to put up my tree now.

Of course, this is a given. I have to hang my new Hallmark Keepsake ornaments of Jack Sparrow on my tree. With any luck of my obsession, I might round up an even dozen before the holidays are over! Imagine a tree with a dozen Jack Sparrows hanging from it.

Soul Mates

When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up and marry a country singer. Specifically: Johnny Horton. It wasn't until I about 9 or 10 I even realize the man was DEAD and had been for 15 years prior to me showing up.

My luck entirely. I find my soul mate and he's dead.

Johnny Horton started my fascination with voices, though. My Dad's got the gruff somber Johnny Cash voice; and we all know what a sucker I am for Alan Rickman. Johnny Horton's got a voice to fall in love with. Deep, smooth, but within its cadence, a happy-go-lucky, wouldn't-we-have-fun tone that makes me want to ride around in a convertible with him and laugh.

My favorite ballad by him is called Miss Marcy. I *cannot* find the lyrics anywhere, but I remember being moved by the story as a kid. It's about a boy named Billy who's asked to recount what happened at the mill the night before (there was a dance)--and apparently Miss Marcy, who was his step-mom, was dancing a bit too close to "Uncle Will" and Billy's father killed or injured like three or four people. I'm trying to remember if he killed himself and Marcy too?--it was a DARK song, but boy, when I was 11, I knew EVERY word. *LOL*

My other favorite ballad by him: They'll Never Ever Take Her Love From Me. Difficult to find lyrics, but not totally impossible.

If today the sun should set on all my hopes and cares
There is one who's smiling face the Gods would see
Cause she'll walk along beside me up to golden stairs
Oh they'll never ever take her love from me
What a fool I was to go and break the trust she gave
And to see her love turn into sympathy
It's the one regret I'll carry with me to my grave
Oh they'll never ever take her love from me
[ strings ]
I'm so thankful for each golden hour of happiness
That we shared together in the used to be
Someone else's arms may hold her now in uncaress
But they'll never ever take her love from me
I thought I'd make her happy if I'd step aside
But I knew her love would never set me free
Even on the day that she became another's bride
Oh they'll never never take her love from me

Hellion Clothed

Ignore my hair. I didn't have a hat. But the duds are ones I sewed. I wish you could have seen the accessories: cat-o-nines, sword, gun (with real sound effects). I still need a hat. *sighs* But I'm not paying those prices for one! I'm not the only pirate on the internet.

Post Halloween Highlights

I went to Pam & Chris' house to hang out Halloween night. I slurped down a bowl of hot and sour soup and had just settled in for some lo mein when the doorbell rang. The first trick or treater!

Chris has already spent time laughing at us because Pam and I had seen a little Harry Potter roaming the back street behind her house. Between houses we could catch glimpses of his red and gold scarf. We bounced around, squealing like we had seen glimpses of Brad Pitt.

Between the hours of 6 and 8, there must have been at least 50 trick or treaters. While some folks might find this a low turn out, I hail from the country--and we never got trick or treaters. I've never seen so many costumed children since I was in grade school.

Harry stopped by, and I squealed about him then. He did not seem nearly as excited to see me.

There was a young bride, no more than 6 years, her father standing quietly at the back of the yard. Her pretty blonde hair was scraped back with a white rose headband/veil, and her lovely bridal gown swept the sidewalk. Very beautiful, very bridal. Wow, I thought, her father must have broke out in hives seeing her in this outfit. It was a very Father of the Bride moment.

A little later, a trio of trick-or-treaters came up. One as a princess; one as Spongebob Squarepants (clever paint job on a box), and the cutest of all, a farmer boy with overalls and a hat, "driving" a John Deer tractor (a box also cleverly painted) that hung from black straps on his shoulders.

The trickiest costume I saw was a 1940s bomber pilot. All of 7, he wore a miniature bomber jacket and one of those skull caps of the era with goggles on his head. He wore a bomber single-engine plane, painted a sort of grayish-green army color around his waist. I think his father spent a lot of time working on that. He looked extremely authentic. He nearly had an accident trying to turn his plane around on the tiny concrete porch and navigate down the stairs again.

Easily the trick-or-treater we enjoyed most was the little pirate who couldn't be more than 4. He was bold for his age--after an entire evening of very shy children who seemed very confused by this ritual of free candy--and he swaggered up in his red and white striped trousers, a red skull cap on his head, a 12-in plastic sword waving fiercesomely, and a twinkle in his eye. He arrived with a group of less confident children, and as Chris calmly told all the children to take one piece of candy, Little Jack reached in with one hand, snagged a piece, then with a gimlet stare right at Chris, snagged a second piece with his other hand. We adults all sucked in a breath at this disobedience of Candy Courtesy. Then Jack grinned roguishly, spun on one heel, and leaped off the porch like a pirate swinging from one ship back to the other. He waved his sword maniacally, screaming as he ran down the walk: "I got it! I got it!"

Back in the house, we looked at Chris: "You just got pillaged, mate."

Happy Halloween all. Any good trick or treater stories where you lived?

Daily Smile

It's Friday. I already started out the morning in a crank-fest--badly behaving applicants, my names misspelled by people who don't read, self-doubt about my writing--all vicious contributors.

But then my boss was standing at my window and said, "Hellion, come look."

I went and looked.

Three adults were herding a group of children, no older than four years old, across the street. Each child held a part of a rope, and the lead adult led the way, while another adult followed to make sure no one lagged and the third adult flanked them on the left to make sure no one bolted from the ranks. All the children were smiling and excited about the adventure they were on, all clutching one grubby hand on the white rope.

Once they made it to the sidewalk, the children filed where they were supposed to--though taking time to bounce up and down on all the man-hole covers and grills, with such obviously enthusiasm my boss and I could practically hear the rattle of the metal grates even though my closed window.

Leaves are falling off the trees, whipping around them; their hair is windblown and their cheeks are rosy--and not one of them looked like they had any concerns whatsoever. They were just as happy with the journey as they were with the prospect of the destination.

My boss and I have been grinning ever since.

Fall

There are many notable things about Fall. It's not so bleeping hot you can fry eggs on the sidewalk. The leaves turn and it's gorgeous with the sunlight reflecting off the trees. The students are back in town, so the driving is abysmal. People start talking about football like I actually care.

And the movies start getting better.

Now, you say, "Hellion, how can they get better than POTC: At World's End?" Right you are. It can't. And you'll be thrilled to note the third movie will be making it's way to DVD on December 4th, what, 2 months away? It IS on my Christmas list if anyone is looking to bequeath me with the normal gestures of goodwill and generosity.

But after all, summer releases are really all about the male ages 14-25. Wedding Crashers. Spiderman. Harry Potter. Yes, even my beloved Pirates is designed with the "male ages 14-25" in mind. Which I find quite unfortunate because all the males I've ever known between those ages have no taste whatsoever in what qualifies as a great movie, with the notable exceptions of Pirates and HP, obviously.

But finally these goobers go back to school come Fall, and Hollywood starts catering to the rest of us--those not male and between the ages of 14-25. And who probably don't care for football.

For instance, Oct 12: Elizabeth: The Golden Age. This has Cate Blanchett revisiting her role (of which she rocked) as Elizabeth I. This time instead of rocking the bedsheets with Joseph Fiennes (God, he's hot), she'll be rocking them with Clive Owen (who's hotter.) I don't see a lot of males between 14-25 going to see this movie, do you?

Further out is The Kite Runner. Based off a book I'm sure I should have read and didn't--and it looks like I'll be sobbing into my popcorn at the end.

Way out, Beowulf. Finally I can know what happened in the story I never read. Either in high school or college. Looks actiony enough to draw the boys.

Some low brow stuff to amuse me: The Comebacks, Fred Claus....

Love in the Time of Cholera! Hey, that sounds promising as an uber-chick flick!

And finally, Enchanted...which looks hysterical, even though predictable.

I also really want to see: Across the Universe, which features Beatles' music and has a character named Jude. It's out now...I need to see it ASAP.

Any movies you're looking forward to? Anyone seen Across and can recommend or not?

Anger Management

I had a long blog, but it got too revealing, so I'm going to summarize:

From Coyote Ugly:

Lil: That's Rachel, you can learn a lot from her.
Violet: She just cut some guy's ponytail off.
Lil: Yeah, the court ordered her to take anger-management classes after she pummeled a customer for grabbing her ass. He pressed charges, I gave her a raise. Cheers!

Hellion: The Musical

In the movie, Singing in the Rain, there is this "musical within a musical" effect. The movie itself is a musical, but it also has a plot twist of actors who are moving from the silent screen to talking pictures--and get the bold idea of making a musical. (Of course, considering the lead actress can't even talk prettily, never mind sing, this gives Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds time to make moon eyes at each other as they sing and speak the talking parts of the "talking picture.") Great movie. Classic bit with the umbrella and the dancing in the rain. Donald O'Connor makes a particularly memorable sidekick.

In Anchors Aweigh, the first musical I watched outside of the children classic standbys of Mary Poppins and Sound of Music, I fell in love with Gene Kelly. Madly. "Get there? Oh, darlin', you know I'll get there." And my soul soared at hearing Frank Sinatra sing that lullaby to the much adorable kid who would grow up to be the sidekick to the Quantam Leap guy. It was here I also met Kathryn Grayson, who also starred in my much favorite: Show Boat. Howard Keel and Kathryn fall in love on the river--and he's a roguish river gambler; and she's the innocent boat captain's daughter. There is a dark, sad angsty twist where the gorgeous Ava Gardner is exposed as a mulatto--and is forced to leave the ship (it was neither the captain's nor Ava's idea...but it was the time period, unfortunately.)

Howard also does roguish pioneer man well too. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is campy, fun, and as deep as a Arizona mudpuddle--but boy, it is a good time. When the six brothers are pining for the town girls and Howard comes in and says, "Well, why don't you do something about it? The Romans would have carried them off! It's right here in Millie's book!"--and what do they do? They kidnap the town girls. The movie is worth the barn-raising dance-off alone. (My friend Holler would beg to differ, but I think it's a great movie.)

Howard was a man of many musicals. I also loved him in Kiss Me, Kate--again, Kathryn Grayson--and he's ever so rakish as he sings, "Where lately is the life I led?" Though he's perhaps not half so rakish as Harve Presnell in The Unsinkable Molly Brown. That movie has some slow points...Holler would probably say they were all slow...but there is this scene where he's teaching her how to read, and he's watching her in such a way you know he's thinking of her naked. Which ironically he's already seen her naked, but...never mind, you'd have to watch the movie. So he sings this song to Molly called, "I'll never say no to you..." Dead sexy.

There are the more obscure musicals like The Pirate and Can-Can (Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra respectively), which while not as memorable as Seven Brides or Singing are still wonderful...and fun.

And these are just the MGM Golden Era of Musicals...I haven't even gotten to Moulin Rouge, Chicago, et al, which have slowly been making their way into the film biz once more.

So I got to thinking (always a frightening pastime), and I wondered what would Hellion: The Musical look like. I mean, never mind the fact I can't sing. Would my childhood years feature songs from Hank Williams, Sr and Johnny Cash; then my pre-teen/teenage years have all 80s music and big hair bands; and the 90s, four hours of George Strait songs? Would I have Waylon's theme from The Dukes of Hazzard, or would I use his Never Could Toe The Mark? Would everyone be dressed in jeans and t-shirts, my obvious choice apparel, or would everyone be in pageant-themed looking outfits, lots of "Halloween" outfits, depending on the mood at the time? Perhaps a pirate theme, and a Medieval theme...and a Regency theme...and whatever else might fit my whimsy.

What do you think Hellion: The Musical would have in it? And what if your life was a musical, what songs do you think would make the list? Who would play you on Broadway? I'd have Kate Winslet play me, of course...ha, ha, Mike the Titanic would eat his words then....

Can't Help Lovin' That Crazy WIP of Mine....

Oh, listen, sister,
I love my manuscript,
And I can't tell you why.
There ain’t no reason…
Why I should love this prose
It must be something that the devil only know…

Phones gotta ring, emails gotta fly,
I gotta write this manuscript till I die—<
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine….

Tell me it’s trite, tell me’s slow,
Tell me the dumb hero has got to go…
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine…

When I don’t write a line…
I near go out of my mind…
But when I sit with my pen and write—
That day is fine…those words do shine.

This plot can go to eternity,
Crazy and trite, I don’t care how it be.
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine.

*can anyone tell I have a thing for Howard Keel flicks? Man, was he HOT!

The Ultimate Exercise Equipment

Due to the very poor grades I received in my overall health, I have been endeavoring to exercise more. Here’s the problem: I hate exercising. I hate sweating. I hate being hot. I hate doing things I’m uncoordinated at, like walking. Sex also comes to mind here, but that’s a different blog.

Friday, I went to my friend Jackie’s house, who also hates sweating, being hot, and doing things that make her look uncoordinated. She is a good friend though, and doesn’t want me to croak quite yet, so we went for a brisk walk. 4000 steps for our little jaunt.

Yes, yes, I’ve got one of those dorky pedometers. Blue.

Saturday, we went to a Pirate Festival at the Rotary Park. This has lots of opportunities for walking. I would tell you how many steps I took, except about halfway through the park I realized my handy-dandy pedometer had fallen off. Probably during the petting zoo area or the pony ride location. (Before anyone points out I’m too big for pony rides, let me assure you I had a 3-year-old in tow who was interested in petting the ponies—though not riding them.) I think the black pony ate my step-counter.

After about 3 hours of wandering around the park, the 3-year-old misbehaved horribly and we had to leave. (So much for pirate hunting.) Once home, I dragged Jackie to a JoAnn’s, where I got the rest of my materials for my Halloween costume; and then we went to a Barnes & Noble, for no other reason than to sit in the squishy chairs and read books. Then Erica, Jackie’s little sister called.

She was going to take her dogs to the dog park. Did we want to go? Now let me just say she has the coolest dogs ever. Nakira and Monty are these cute, hilarious mutts. Nakira is the ham, and she’s always so excited to see you…and she smiles all the time. Monty is lower-keyed, but a lover. If you lay down, he’ll crawl up beside you, worm his way into your arms, and sigh in contentment as his head is resting on your chest. (Monty is proof males are the same no matter what species they are.) I love them both, so I’m game to the park.

We go. Erica lets the dogs run in their area as Jackie and I walk on the trails for our evening walk. (I wanted to make sure I got plenty of walking in—since that horse ate my walking device! How was I to know when I could quit walking? Blast.) So we probably walk a mile roundtrip. Erica wants to now walk the dogs on the trail. Okay. So I get Monty, because he’s lower-keyed, right? Hahahahahaha. I trotted my ass off to keep up with this dog!

I don’t jog, folks. If you ever see me running, it’s not “to” something because frankly “it” can wait until I can saunter to it or I just don’t need it. If I’m running, it’s from something, like snakes. A serial killer. One of my really bad dates. Monty, though, doesn’t know how to saunter, and unless I wanted to be dragged down the gravel road on my belly, I adapted immediately.

So I jogged. Panted. Gasped for air as I walked at an uber-fast clip when I could no longer jog. By the time we left, I was certain all-told, I must have walked/trotted at least 3 miles. Yes, of course, I’m counting the Jackie-Fran sauntering mile—but two miles of jog/trotting is quite a bit, thank you much.

I’ve decided the ultimate exercise device is not a pedometer but a dog. Not one of those sissy dogs though—a 40 pound mutt who doesn’t know what a saunter is and is very interested in trotting up and down roads. If he likes to also curl up with you as you watch TV and sigh against your chest, that’s just a bonus.

So what’s your secret exercise equipment? Your toddler? Your dog? Your husband?

Mousetrap Part Deux

I shared a "Mousetrap" poem with you some months ago. I think. I'm pretty sure. So I wrote a part 2 to the poem.

Our moments have passed and the years have gone by
But still I find I’m intrigued by this Cocksure-ish Cat.
If he would but stay unmarried for the blink of an eye
I’m race him to the bedroom in six seconds flat
But this is a Feline who can’t be alone—
Thus I’m unable to allow him to make me his own.

My virtue has thwarted him time and again
As he sets to convince me it’s inevitable we’ll mate.
How could a passion as ours be considered a sin,
When it’s clear we’ve been marked by the Fickle Finger of Fate?
Oh, he’s persuasive and every glinting look beguiles.
I’m enchanted by the beast of his masculine wiles.

“Take me and kiss me,” he pleads against the curve of my lips;
His caress could cause a nun to recant to her vows.
I find I’m disabled, dishabille, and empty of quips,
Full of “yeses” instead of “back away nows.”
Good thing the faith of Christendom doesn’t depend upon me
For I find I’m ‘tween the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.

Lies we have bantered, truths we have forsook;
We’re caught in the web we’ve created ourselves.
A tangled romance you’d find nowhere but in a book,
A love bartered in a circle of Hell.
Eternal Hope springs and refuses to wane
When I’m in the embrace of my favorite Bane.

Ode to Men

Men, thou art handsome savages,
With rakish grins to make me swoon;
Even the shyest of you are prone to ravages
And seductions under the light of the moon.

“Fancy a fuck?” or other such words,
Will command your attention like cannon fire blast.
If it weren’t so funny, it’d be for the birds—
Anything, I suppose, to get us to mount your mast.

Like dogs on collars, chained to a tree,
You forget and run to the end of the tether.
Hope springs eternal for a sex orgy spree,
Complete with whipped creams, cuffs, and a feather….

Oh, men, how I adore thee, thy simplistic motivation,
For why shouldn’t we screw instead of most anything?
Let’s then do as thy will—and call for a cessation,
And instead explore all the pleasures that sex can bring.

Lunch With Friends

I don't think women leave their desks at work often enough and meet their friends for lunch. I don't sit at my desk and eat; but I do spend an ungodly amount of time in the breakroom, nose in a book, unthinkingly eating, enjoying little.

Today I went to meet Pam for lunch. This week was her birthday, and we've all been busy and haven't found the normal weekend time to celebrate her birthday. And if we try too hard, it's been known to get all complicated and nasty and very unenjoyable. Instead I was, "I'm going to buy her a book, damnit"--being Thank God, she likes to read more romances now--"and we'll go to lunch."

We met at Taj Mahal, an Indian restaurant. We hoped the food would be better than it had been at the other Indian restuarant. It was. It was awesome. It was beyond awesome. We talked, we laughed, we shared. She delighted in the fact I'd actually bothered to wrap her gift; and she cooed over the card I made her, even though I had shown her the card a couple weeks ago.

Then we started girl talking. You know the kind I mean. The kind you do out of earshot of boys because you'd get into massive trouble, especially if you're married to one of them. The talking that involves bad sex, bad dates, men who don't talk, romance novels, and on and on.

"I love my husband, but he does not talk like the men in these books." Pause. "Well, no man does...and it is fiction."

"You know, Christina Dodd says she writes men's dialogue by thinking of woman and then dumbing it down." Pam laughs so hard she covers her mouth--because I know her guilty Virgo butt is feeling bad she laughed.

"I love my husband, but he doesn't talk."

"Well, of course not. The man watches TV all the time. He has Eric for a brother. He never got a word in edgewise. He's quiet. You married the Quiet Man. This is not unusual."

"True. And don't get me started about him interrupting me while I read. He's watching the Chiefs play, so it's not like I can talk to him, but then he wants me to talk to him."

"You know why, right?" I say, ever the expert on men. "It's so he can tune you out while he watches the game. He's so used to doing that he can't watch the game without it." Pam's eyes widen at this new conspitorial truth.

"You're right!"

"So the solution," I say, "is to tape yourself talking, play that while he watches the game and you can read in peace. Plus if he says he didn't hear the last thing you said, you can just hit the rewind button. It's really a win-win."

"I like this tape recording idea."

"Oh! Oh! And in the bedroom, you can just have him read a script--and then you can play the recording as he does his thing." We fall over into hysterics. We're freaking hilarious, aren't we?

Then there is a discussion of a Geoduck. (If you don't know what it is, you need to Google it.) She had recently learned of what they are, but the guys at work explaining what they were couldn't do it--because in their words (the ones they COULDN'T say), it looks like a penis with a clam/oyster shell clamped on one end. Men. Everything looks like a dick.

I Googled this creature when I got back to work. I couldn't resist. You know what it looks like? It looks like an elephant trunk with an oyster shell clamped on the fat end of the trunk, or as I described to Pam later: it looks like an oyster swallowed an elephant but couldn't manage the trunk.

*Beevis and Butthead laugh* Heh-heh, I said swallow.

Pam said, "Well, the picture they showed, the trunk end was wrapped around the shell, that's why they thought penis."

"When in the history of penises have we ever known them to do that? In fact, I'm sure if I ever asked a man if he would or could wrap his penis around an oyster shell that would clamp down on the end--he would have bolted out of the room and called Men Abuse Hotline."

So the point of this blog is: go out and eat with your girlfriends. It's good for your health.

Look!

Ha! It arrived!

My Captain Jack Sparrow talking action doll arrived! He's so awesome and sounds just like him! Now if he would only STAND properly. Obviously he's drunk even by statuette.

Favorite Romantic "Forbidden" Movie

I usually want what I can't have. The more forbidden something is, the more enticing it is. I don't like apples, but I guarantee you if I'd been Eve and that was the fruit, I would have had a batch of them whipped up for supper, served with a side of caramel sauce. (Because everything is better with a side of caramel sauce.)

I think my interest in the Forbidden carries well into my whole obsessive side of my nature too--so really I enjoy having compatible parts of myself. (By the way, I ordered a Captain Jack Sparrow doll that speaks. I'm sure I'll be blogging about it soon.)

So last night, I tapped into my obsessive/forbidden side by watching The Scarlet Letter. This pushed buttons on about every level. It has Gary Oldman (who plays Sirius Black in Harry Potter films), who looks extremely hot in this film. (Those eyes. *swoons*) It has that FORBIDDEN romance between the married woman and her minister. (Normally I would never think of jumping my minister, but understandably, he looks nothing like Gary from this movie.) And because they "freely adapted" from the original story, it has an ending where they finally get together at the end (though it's said he dies before their child gets to be a teenager, et al, blah, blah, blah.)

Doesn't matter. They ride off triumphantly out of town, their adulterous love a victory at last.

Yes, yes, only in fiction, right? (Though I do know an amazing amount of adulterous affairs turned marriages that are hanging around, looking rather victorious. Funnily enough, they morph into regular old marriages where everyone is fighting about who left the toothpaste cap off the toothpaste.)

I also watched Dracula, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only person (except maybe Dracula) who went, "Oh, that's so romantic! He cursed God because he lost his true love...and then...and then...she broke the curse. Their love broke the curse!" Now mind you, there is about another hour and fifty minutes of non-romantic stuff...and some bestiality, but I was distilling it to its purest elements for you guys. Dracula is a love story.

You'll also notice that Gary Oldman was in Dracula. Yes, I know. I'm having a Gary month.

So what is your favorite forbidden? What is your favorite movie with a forbidden element? (Or do you prefer your movies slightly less "forbidden" and more sweet?)

A Francelot Parody

Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
At boring work I heard your cry.
Writing Muse! Writing Muse!
Here I am, ready to shoot the sky.
I know in my heart the book I should write,
And I shall publish it with all my might.

A writer of the Vagabonds should be creative,
Succeed where a less ingenious gypsy would flunk.
Write a sentence without a single gerund,
Compose a sex scene to leave the readers stunned,
Pen a book that no reader would dare refund.
No matter the struggle, she ought to be unflaggable,
Impossible scenerios should be as natural as air.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so *extraordinaire*?

C'est moi! C'est moi, I'm forced to confess.
'Tis I, I meekly reply.
That mortal who
These wonders can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
In penned prose or wit;
I'm simply the best by far.
When characters are crossed
'Tis always the same:
One keystroke and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi! I am so blessed!
An Amish Nora Roberts unbound.
And here I sit, with wit audacious,
Exeption'ly corny, steamin’ly salacious,
To serve at the Gypsy campfire round!

The soul of a writer should be quite outstanding,
Her heart and her mind as brave as Will Ferrell.
With a force and resolve
Round all ideas do revolve
She could easily work a Happy Ending in Hell.
To love and desire she ought to be demanding,
The ways of the flesh should offer every allure.
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A writer so sexually secure?
(C'est moi!)

C'est moi! C'est moi, I blush to disclose.
I'm far too noble to lie.
That writer in whom
These qualities bloom,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never procrastinated
From the book I am writing;
I'm blessed with a one-tracked mind.
Had I published
Far before now,
I’d still be on tours with fan lines.
C'est moi! C'est moi! The angels have chose
To write their love scenes in prose,
And here I stand, as wicked as Sodom,
Incredibly boastful, with ego to spare,
The conceitedest writer I know!
C'est moi!

Books, Banes, and Bast....

I've been drinking a lot lately, I admit. And last Saturday was no different. I stopped by Pam's house and realized they were going out, and they invited me. They even invited me knowing that a certain guy would be in the group. Pam's brother-in-law, who is this guy I share on-again, off-again witty banter (and occasionally more), and who also happens to be married. For a second time. "Unhappily."

I'll let everyone pause for a second to remember the plot of my current WIP and go "Holy Shit."

It's really not quite the same. Pam is far nicer. Her husband would NEVER do the things he does in my WIP. This guy is not Ben. He IS the inspiration for Ben though--and I can say that here, because he has absolutely no idea about this blog...or my writing (well, not much anyway)...or well, let's just say, I figure it's good odds he'll not figure it out. Unless the book gets published...and he buys it. But again, it's not really him. Oh, well, I'm done arguing with myself about this....

Any way at some point during the evening, he says to me, "Hellion, you've always been the bane of my existence." This is possibly in direct irritation of him asking a question I didn't want to answer and I said I plead the fifth.

Nice. I concurred he'd always been MY bane as well. We smile. We make our reluctant goodbyes, and he leaves.

Then I looked up bane today, just to be sure it was what I was thinking. It was.

He could have meant any of the following:

1. A person who ruins or spoils. (I have not ruined anything. I think we can mark this off the list.)

2. A deadly poison. (Flattering, but unlikely.)

3. Death, destruction or ruin. (This one has possibilities. I think we really would be the death of each other.)

4. A source of persistent annoyance or exasperation. (Ooh, I think we might have a winner. I'm annoying. Now there's a surprise.)

5. Something that causes misery or death. (Also a possibility.)

So question of the day: Has anyone inspired you to make them a character in your book? Do you have anyone you'd classify as a bane (and nobody better say me--I'm just saying)? And which definition was he shooting for? Annoying or misery?

Dumbo

I was sitting in traffic, at the last light I turn with on my way to work, and I was doing my usual routine at 7:54 am. Then the news comes on and makes an announcement about a new baby elephant born at St. Louis zoo, and weighing in at 236 pounds.

I then realized after all those years of saying the toss-away exaggerated statement of "I'm as big as an elephant", that I was indeed as big as an elephant. A pre-maturely born baby elephant. Quite humbling.

But then I got to thinking about Dumbo, a very cute baby elephant—and his big ears. (I did get to thinking about my ears as well. They are awful pointy. Everyone tells me this; Dumbo and I have so much in common, weight and ears.) But he can fly.

So I thought some more. And then I thought, well, his ears, that he was born with obviously, are his talent and/or ability. Writing is my talent—my elephant ears. And like Dumbo, I didn't think I could fly and was scared too. Now, I didn't have this really cool mouse mentor who handed me a feather and said, "Now you can fly" but I do realize I have used many types of feather talismans over the years to get liftoff. In fact, I use my English Major label as a sort of feather. It's why I went to college, to polish up my writing, to better refine my writing techniques.

But did I really need to go to college to learn to write? No. There are plenty of great and well-published writers who never got college degrees. In fact, there are also plenty of well-decorated, many-degree-carrying people who still can't write, though they may indeed be published.

Another famous feather many writers clutch is "The Muse". "Well, I can't write anything until I'm inspired, until the Muse tells me. I don't want to just write trite fiction; I want to create something brilliant." But any trite fiction writer will tell you it's impossible to fix a blank page. Edits are what makes trite writing something worth reading.

Writing books and writing classes are easy to come by if you have the money; and you always feel safer at your desk while writing if you have the latest book to help you plot or get past writer's block—but they aren't actually what makes you write. In fact, 90% of the time, I get a book, read it, get bored or frustrated, and say "Screw it, I'm writing it however I want" and then start writing. That, in and of itself, was worth the $13.95 to me, and it will come in handy another dozen times when I consult the book, but really, it didn't exactly tell me anything I haven't already heard a dozen times before. For free.

So should I ever lose all my feathers—my books, my degree ("What? What do you mean I needed one more hour of PE?"), my Muse—I should take a page from Dumbo and remember I don't need a feather to fly with to really fly.

How about you? What abilities/talents do you have and what feathers do you clutch?