Indigo

Readers and writers both try to picture characters in their heads.

This is my Indigo.

Alex Pettyfer.

You're welcome ladies. ;)

Memorial Day (f.k.a. Decoration Day)

Decoration Day

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest

On this Field of the Grounded Arms,

Where foes no more molest,

Nor sentry's shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,

And started to your feet

At the cannon's sudden roar,

Or the drum's redoubling beat.

But in this camp of Death

No sound your slumber breaks;

Here is no fevered breath,

No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace,

Untrampled lies the sod;

The shouts of battle cease,

It is the Truce of God!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!

The thoughts of men shall be

As sentinels to keep

Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green

We deck with fragrant flowers

Yours has the suffering been,

The memory shall be ours.

                              -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My thoughts and prayers are with those who have lost loved ones while in service of our country. May the fallen rest in peace with our gratitude for your sacrifice, and theirs.

-Amy

Writing is a Wicked Bitch.

I’ve been tossing the idea of my novel Indigo around for quite a while now. Two years? At least? Well yeah – a long time. I had submitted the first 5 pages to the same contest I had Ghosting in (which didn’t get past the first 50 pages round btw). The feedback was truly good, and I’ve even had strangers from around the world reach out to me to see where the first 50 pages of Indigo were because they were captivated by the story so far. That has amazed me because I couldn’t see how the first 5 pages of anything could snag anyone’s attention, but it made me feel good nonetheless. People really liked Indigo.

So last night I revisited Indigo after our long hiatus, and my creative juices are now flowing again. I made MAJOR changes – changing the voice from first person to third (uncomfortable!), the tense from past to present (tricky!), and finally decided what the story was going to be about (Yay!). My original premise now feels overdone in the market, and the new one I came up with is good. Really good. But complicated. It will be a challenge to write.

Am I up to this challenge? I have no idea. Knowing my history of leaving things undone when the going gets difficult makes doubt dance around maniacally in the back of my mind.

One of my major problems is pacing. I have NO idea how to pace a novel. Short stories - I’m a pro. If I needed to write the whole thing in 50 pages I could do it, no problem. But 350? Not so much. I don’t know when to reveal what. What is too soon? How much anticipation should there be? How much back story is needed, if any? Argh!

Part of me wants to say screw it, just write it all then mess with it later. But the perfectionist (read, chicken) in me says pick it apart as I go. But that instant dissection of what I’ve written is what’s hindering my progress. It’s a vicious cycle.

Yes dear novel, you are.

My goal for the time being is the first 50 pages for that contest. Once I have that in I’ll be able to see feedback from readers and editors, hopefully addressing the pacing among other things. While it’s not my favorite thing, I need the criticism to make me a better writer.

Lots of people say they like my writing ‘voice,’ which is a huge compliment to me. I know it’s rare to have a good writing voice, so I take deep pride in that. I just hope that my ‘voice’ can say the right things at the right time.

Has this whole blog been a delay tactic to avoid doing the work? You betcha. I need discipline, have you noticed? I need to just do the work. Or as my sis-in-law says: JUST DO IT.

That, in a nutshell, is what makes writing a Wicked Bitch. But for some ungodly reason, I still love her...

Amy Has...

The idea of this exercise is to Google your name and the word "has" after it. It's also normally done with the word "likes" as well - but I think I did that on Facebook not too long ago (well, maybe a few years ago). So, I thought I would see what the Googledom thinks I have.

I had wanted to work on my book Indigo this weekend, but have been too busy to just sit and really think, let alone write. So, the point of this is for me to post something on this blog; whether it be trite, hot monkey crap like this, or a deep essay about my feelings (gasp). Hey, at least it's not another poem...

And awaaaaay we go:

1. Amy has...A crush on Shadow. This is an anime video from YouTube. I looked at the video briefly, and I think Shadow is a Sonic the Hedgehog type-looking-thing... so I'd have to disagree with the 'crush' idea. Now if it said "Amy has a crush on Richard Armitage" that would be a completely different story, and one that I would wholeheartedly support.

This is Shadow. My new boyfriend.

2. 'Baby' Amy has...Hoover fright. This is another video, this time showing a poor defenseless infant being tortured by a vacuum for the viewer's amusement. I'm not so easily amused. I also don't have Hoover fright. Aversion maybe, but no fear here.

Cuz, it's soooooo cute!!!

3. Amy has...a strange connect with Katrina! What? This is a reference to two no-name models with similar beauty brand endorsements. I don't currently have any endorsements. Well, unless you count my CoffeeMate endorsement deal, but that is currently unpaid (and unbeknownst to Nestle).

Ooooooh yeah.....

4. Amy has...the talent to capture all of the qualities we love about Lois: smart, tough, funny, warm, ambitious and, of course, beautiful. Awww, I'm blushing! This refers to actress Amy Adams' upcoming portrayal of Lois Lane in a Superman reboot. However, I agree with the description. :)

You go girl.

5. Amy has...Zero Swag. Another video. And probably true - considering that I have no clue what the current description of "swag" is. It used to refer to merchandise like concert t-shirts, etc. Now, I'm not so sure. So unless they are referring to my copious concert t-shirt collection, I can affirm that I have zero swag. Should I be sad about this? I feel like I should.

Err, yea!

I'm going to stop at 5, since there aren't too many "Amy has" titles, and they're mostly in the descriptions. I've chosen to ignore all of the Amy Winehouse references - because there are just too many, and I'm not too comfortable with joking about the dearly departed (there were some juicy ones though).

So what does Google think you have?

If - By Rudyard Kipling

One of my fondest memories from my childhood includes my father reading Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling to me at bedtime. Since then Mr. Kipling has held a special place for me in my own library. If is by far one of my favorite poems, and its message still holds true today - especially in trying times, as these are for me.

My hope is that if these are trying times for you - the message will resonate for you as well.

Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth (1948)

If

by Rudyard kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


(or a Woman. Just sayin'.)

Preludes - By T.S. Eliot

I've been reading a lot of T.S. Eliot lately, and thought I'd share one that struck me particularly. It's not often that I read poetry, as it's not often that poetry moves me - but I've found a new appreciation for it with T.S. Eliot. It's quite romantic in a darkly fluid sort of way. I don't think it's something that can be explained, rather experienced. So, enjoy.

Preludes
T.S. Eliot

I

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o'clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters,

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed's edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies

That fade behind a city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o'clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain certainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

So Long, Farewell

Today my son’s sperm donor, err, father is moving out of state.  He didn’t give a forwarding address, and for some really childish reasons wouldn’t even say where he was going other than to say “south,” or “somewhere in the Carolinas.”  That might have bothered other mothers in the same situation, but not me.  I say good riddance, and don’t let the proverbial door hit you in the ass on the way out – or better yet, let it hit you. I really don’t care one way or the other.

He hasn’t had a relationship with my son in years, and to be honest, my son does not miss him – or ever mention him, so I never really think about him.  And we’re okay with that.  He went from February of this year to July without a single word from him – and he lived right around the corner.  Yes, you read that correctly – right around the corner.  He never wished him a Merry Christmas or Happy New Year.  He’s been to only one of my son’s baseball games in the last 3 or 4 years, and that was only to borrow money (which he never repaid). And today I see that he's even deleted my son from his Facebook friends. Truly amazing.

I’m sure he blames me for their lack of a relationship, as he has a habit of blaming all of his problems on other people, but I will not take it.  It was, and is not my responsibility to maintain their relationship.  I can count on a single hand the number of times he’s called to inquire as to our son’s well-being or to speak to him directly.  He likes to use the excuse “the phone works both ways,” well in our case it really doesn’t.  Our son doesn’t know how to use the phone, and he surely knows that – therefore making it my fault somehow of course.  If he wanted a relationship with our son, he would have called.  On the rare occasions that he did call, I never refused the interaction.  If I missed the call, I called back.  On the even rarer occasions that he wanted to spend time with our son, I allowed it – sometimes even forcing my son to go when he didn’t want to.  Full access was always available, but never taken advantage of.  I never even spoke badly of him in front of my son either, unlike him, I’m sure.  Common courtesy was always given.  And yet, in his delusional eyes – I’m the horrible one.

You know what? I’m fine with that.

I know I have done nothing wrong, and I get the joy of spending all the time with our son – who is amazing by the way – without having to share it with him.  When he’s sick or hurt, he knows I will be there to comfort him.  When he does something great and wants to share, he seeks me out to tell it to.  I find great solace in that.  We are a team, my son and I, we’ve been through a lot of heartache and a lot of joy together, and I wouldn’t give that up for the world.  My friends even know, if you invite me to something – he’s coming too; we are a package deal.  His father will never know that joy.  Do I feel sorry for him?  Hell no.  He’s a grown man who had his chance to do the right thing, and he instead chose to be petty, and use me as his scapegoat for not having a relationship with his own son.  Who I feel sorry for is my son, who will apparently never know what a real father is like.  My disappointment in that fact can be overwhelming at times – that I made such a horrible choice in partners so long ago, that now my son has to pay for it.

The time has come for me to let that disappointment and regret go.  So to my son’s sperm donor I say:

So long, farewell
Auf Wiedersehen, adieu
Adieu, adieu
To you and you and you