Crash boom bang

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For the next few days, wait patiently as we attempt to sort out this glitch. Visit with friends and family. Have some turkey. If you can stomach it. Whichever.

We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your feed. We are partaking in matters of life and death, experiencing the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits.

So you're telling me there's a chance

So. Got an answer for that submission of mine with Ellora's Cave. Revise and resubmit, it said. If you can. If you dare. No, that's not what it said but that's how it feels on first reading, like you've failed, royally. You pathetic excuse for a wannabe writer. Fluke. One-hit wonder. Not even much of a success, that first attempt, now was it, come to think of it, discounting the pirates?

Come to think of it, what are the odds? If you don't know me by now, here's the deal: I picked up writing after a long break and got an offer for the first erotic romance I ever submitted. Had to revise. Did. Got published. See the lovely gent to your right. So, been there, done that. Wrote something different this time around but will be going through the same grinder again. No promises, no guarantees, only the chance to prove I can do it. One chance and one chance only.

Can't remember who said and can't be bothered to Google that the world doesn't need another writer, or another story. Well, I think this writer needs this story. I need my work cut out for me, something so daunting I dare not lose courage, something dangled just within my reach, and the notion that maybe I'm not much of a writer after all, aren't I going to prove them any different?

This couldn't have come at a worse and it couldn't have come at a better time. She would haunt me for all eternity if I lost heart now, even if I feel it's already gone MIA. He wouldn't approve of the moping or the mourning, not for a second. He would ask, "Why the long face? Someone die?" I would nod. "Was it you?" I'd shake my head, he'd shake his and ask, "So why the long face?" He would tell me life goes on and I don't have to forget, I'd better not forget, only keep being kind, curious. Unafraid.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go bury my grandfather. Don't tell my editor. I need her to believe I can do this. I need her to believe I believe I can do this, and I do. So no long faces, no excuses, no complaints. Cheer me on, wish me well, and maybe somewhere in the not so distant future we'll be talking star-crossed lovers.

Be good. Be well. Be happy. With one hundred percent certainty, we're all gonna die. Do you know what the odds of being born are?

Lives for rent

So how are those New Year's resolutions working out for you, or your goals for this year? Have you found your waist, started a savings account or emptied out the one you were watching over like Scrooge? What do you mean what do I mean, you haven't forgotten about promises made have you? Pleading ignorance, temporary insanity or one too many glasses of bubbly, are we?

It's November, high time for an inventory, don't you think? Still haven't seen that movie, read that book, learned how to play chess or brushed up on your Spanish? Will you? Ever? Of course it's not laziness, it's prioritizing, right? If you were motivated by I-want-to instead of I-must, you would have gotten down to it sometime during the last millennium. You'd like to, sure, but why do you feel you have to? Would it make your life better? Would it make you a better person? It would make you busier still but would it make you happier?

If you're thinking you haven't thought about it much because you haven't had time to think of anything lately (and I've heard too much of that these past few months), you might want to start thinking whose thoughts are you thinking then, whose choices are you making, whose life are you living anyway.

Time to say goodbye

I got some sad bad news regarding my maternal grandfather, the gentleman who recently turned ninety. He has taken a turn for the worse and decided this is it, no more hospital beds and treatments that won't make him better, only delay the inevitable, and so he has stopped eating and has refused nutrient fluids. He is going as his brother did before him, taking his life in his hands, sharp of mind but tired of body.

And it will be like losing her all over again, I just know it will, I can feel it. I know I said I wouldn't bring this stuff to the den but it's just so hard to bear sometimes, walking wounded. I will go about my day and without warning be shot through the heart by a sorrow so extreme for a moment I can't breathe. I almost walked in front of a car the other day. I fear mauling someone with mine. I've started having a recurring dream where I'm being robbed. A gun in my face, a knife at my waist, The Look that means business.
 

I'm getting ready. I'm getting ready to lose yet something I can't replace. Nothing left unsaid, nothing left undone. That is my solace. Pain may be the price we pay for love, but it's worth every bullet. Now that the chips are down, I feel more joy than I do sorrow, gratitude more than I do anything else. I may never see them or hold them again but I will always have the moments leading to goodbye.

Good luck trying to rob me of those.

Start the revolution without me

Happy Diwali and Guy Fawkes'! 

And my apologies, V. I know it's supposed to be V for Vendetta night at the home movie theater but this year is not good for me, sweetie darling. Girls' night out, you see.

Oh don't give me that face. That face. The one you always do, that quirky smirk. It's not going to work, not this time, so don't even start. I promise to come home early. Real early. Around 4 am? Early enough in the morning for you? I thought so. Catch you next year then.

Cheers. Behave.

Hammer to fall

How are you, sweetie darlings? Did les Américains among you join the rally to restore sanity, i.e. voted wisely? Did you enjoy the rally to restore fear, a.k.a. Halloween? And have you stopped by Ellora's Cave lately? Whyever not? And why is whyever still not a word?

Lots of exciting things going on at the webstore of my alma mater of Romantica, most notably...the ePub format! The who in the what now? Click here to find out. The November BOGO selection is out, and author Tawny Taylor's writing contest is on, no entry fee or purchase required.  

Still two submission rounds to go. That means two chances left to enter and win a critique of your full manuscript/partial ms/first chapter of said ms by EC editor Grace Bradley. Additional prize: Randomly drawn entry will receive a critique by an EC author. Two more of those up for grabs as well, so if you're sitting on some erotic romance, get up, dust it off, polish if need be and send it off.

For details on what/how/where/when, visit Tawny's. You know you want to. I know you're thinking about it. Think no more. Go. Do it. Do or die.

In other news, I've resubmitted the story that took a detour when my EC editor stepped down. It's like waiting for Godot, I tells ya. Okay, not exactly, I'll get an answer eventually, but in the meantime, you bet I check my inbox seven hundred times a day I'm busy with business and pleasure alike. Anything "to hold the terrible silence at bay" while I wait for the verdict. In my smarty pants. No, seriously, put that play in your bucket list if you haven't seen it.

Misery loves company, so get busy with that ms of yours and join me in the waiting game. And bring Mavala Stop. I'll provide the screaming meemies.

All Saints'

Temperature: 7/44.5, cloudy with a chance of sharpshooters. I'll explain some other day, okay?

Eating: Just had breakfast, thank you.

Drinking: At this hour? It's not even noon yet!

Watching: a brown hare napping under the fir.

Listening: to Hurts.

Reading: The Dictionary of Political Bullshit by Nick Webb.

Writing: A card to Hubby for his birthday, which happens to be today, which means good times ahead later in the afternoon and this evening, sweetie darlings. Wish you were here! On second thought, no; at some point things would get awkward for all parties involved.

Feeling: conflicted.