Cruel summer

Source

Mala fide

Temperature: on the rise

Eating: can't, there's a bad taste in my mouth

 

Drinking: my last cup of sorrow regarding a professional/business matter. Enough.

Watching: nature put on a summer dress, how beautiful she looks

Listening: to life roar every time I step out, what a lovely sound

Reading: something that made me want to tell someone to go sit in a corner and think about what they did while I go sit in mine and think about what to do next because this...this is...just... Enough already.

 

Writing: back in the politest of terms telling them I've been patient, I've been reasonable and I've been understanding and that I'm at the end of my rope, when what I really want to do is scream at the top of my lungs. “Enough already.” Seriously. Enough is enough.

Feeling: on the ropes, sweetie darlings. Sorry to sound so negative, I try to focus on the positive, summer's coming and a proper vacation and travels and adventures, but if you only knew.

Or die trying

Weighed, measured and found wanting. Romantica roadkill. Not coming to Ellora's Cave. (Must you be so theatrical, you ask? Would I be me if I weren't, I ask? And what are we talking about here, innocent bystanders ask?) The story I was asked to revise and resubmit. Not happening.

I'm so sorry, dearest denizens. Hurts like a mother bitch. Won't pretend it doesn't. Hindsight being what it is, maybe I should have given up at some point along the way. Well, I didn't. At least I tried. And you know what? I finished the book. I finished the damn book twice. How about that?

The premise was the hook, and it ended up being my downfall. It felt like a good idea (now don't they always...). Tricky but doable. And then I couldn't pull it off, not this time around. I took some calculated risks with the ms. I lost. On each and every account. My bad. I'll have to live with that. And I'll be sure to remember that next time I have a bright idea.

The comments I've gotten from friends who don't write have been along the lines of deep condolences. I put in all those hours and came out the other end of the process with nothing to show for it. They feel sorry for me, I can feel it. They can't bring themselves to say it and frankly, I don't want to hear it. It is what it is. I'll live, believe me. Silver lining: I've found new ways of how not to write Romantica. That knowledge is golden.

I'm young, life is long, this too shall pass. Even if that doesn't ring true, that's what I need to believe right now. Besides, it's too hot for me to start getting cold feet, and too beautiful out there to think ugly thoughts, and Saturday is just around the corner, and come Saturday...Carnaval! Samba!! On the streets of Helsinki!!! Yes, there will be half-naked ladies. Okay, more like two-thirds naked. No, samba is not an erotic dance. And no, I most definitely won't be posting pics, you'd just stare at my...shoes.

On Monday, it's back to the monster plan. Master plan. It's back to the master plan. I'm thinking something simple. Nothing too ambitious, nothing too contrived. Yeah, will definitely give it a try after I type The End at the end of my latest bright idea. (Yeah, right.) But, as Samuel Beckett put it: "Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order." See you around, sweetie darlings. Dance on.

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.

Blue Monday

Bummer way to start the week but c'est la vie, my Ellora's Cave editor announced she's stepping down. I'm really sorry to see her go, we were just getting started and she was the perfect coolheaded counterpart to my, well, hmm, idiosyncrasies. All I could say was thank you and be well when all I wanted was to grovel and plead please don't go.

I sent out a story some three weeks ago and I guess I'll have to send it out and start the process all over again once I get word whom to send it to next. Here's hoping she's half as nice as my ex. 

I'll try to keep the bread and circuses going until I know more. On Wednesday, I'm visiting with Delilah Devlin and talking about... No, wait. Come by and find out and take part in a game I want to play, and everyone's eligible to enter, I promise, as long as you come as you are. Can't say more, won't, shutting up now lest I do.

I feel better already. Thanks for listening. Hope to see you over at Delilah's then. Don't forget! Wednesday!! Jot it down!!!

It's not paranoia if they're really after you

D: My laptop died on me. Caught its death somewhere. And I'm protected. Was. Really, truly...fortified. I don't believe this.

Doc: I'm not that kind of doctor. I said I'm not that kind of doctor.

D: Do you moisturize? Your hands don't look a day over fifty.

Doc: I'm forty-five.

D: That's what I'm saying. Everything was running smoothly during the day. I go back in the evening and everything's...kaput. It started berserking and it hasn't stopped berserking since. It's laughing at me. Well, not as in a skull flashes and laughs but you know...I think it knows I've had a shitty week and...it's trying to make it worse.

Doc: Speak up, dear.

D: It's adding insult to injury, is what it's doing.

Doc: How long have you believed inanimate objects are out to get you?

D: Could inanimate objects do such things? That's what I'm saying.

Doc: These things happen.

D: Do they have to happen all at once?

Doc: They don't know they're all happening at once.

D: I don't understand what you're saying. What kind of a doctor are you?

Doc: It's a coincidence. They're not out to get you. It's all in your head.

D: Fine. I still feel violated. Like after a robbery. Unsafe.

Doc: Of course you do.

D: I sit at another desk on another computer and it doesn't feel right.

Doc: Of course it doesn't. Maybe you need to step away for a while. What would you do if you had no desk, or a computer?

D: I'd use pen and paper.

Doc: Let's pretend you couldn't. Let's pretend they were out to get you, to make sure you never wrote another word. Took away all your tools, messed up, no, wiped out everything.

D: I'd find a way to write.

Doc: But if you had nothing to write on? If you were told you couldn't?

D: That I was prohibited to write? Is that what you're saying?

Doc: That is what I'm saying. That you could never write again. Ever.

D: I'd write in my head.

Doc: So what you're saying is all you need is in your head.

D: It's all in my head.

Doc: And can they get to your head?

D: Keep it down, will you.