Great premise. Shitty book.

I weep for these situations.

Premise is basically the idea of the story.  The foundation on which a writer builds his/her story.  It is germane to the entire creation.

I'm a voracious reader.  I find myself bending toward teen fiction right now.  Easy reads.  Interesting plots.  So on and so forth.  I've also taken to downloading ebooks from Overdrive.  I can read them in my browser, and if I really enjoy them, I may pick up the paperback.

But it's a sad day when I read the synopsis of a book and pick it up, only to find that I'm incredibly disappointed with the finished product.
I'm trying out the first book in a trilogy about witches and paths that they choose.  Great premise. But the heroine?  She's not TSTL (too stupid to live), but she's highly annoying.  She's whiny and angsty and so helpless that I want to flick her to see if she can focus.

Because...MY GOD!!!  You have so much material here.  You could have made it a fantastic story where I wanted to keep reading until the wee hours of the morning.
I'm right under less than halfway, and I'm believe I'm done with it.

It pains me.
Truly.

If you've a brilliant premise, then please!!!  Please put everything you've got into it.  Make your characters live and breathe and cry and scream.  Use vivid descriptions.  Utilize dynamic dialogue. But most of all???

Do the premise justice.  Do YOURSELF justice.  It's not easy, but it's a hell of a lot better than half-assed storytelling just so you can type "The End".

*******

Where everybody knows your name

Names have power.
I firmly believe this.

We're encouraged to wear name tags at work.
Yeah.
Mine is at my desk.

You have members of the community that you really don't want to know your name speaking to you with a familiarity reserved for decade-old friends and family.
Sir.
Excuse me.
You DO NOT know me.
Step.

Or the time a gentleman asked me my name while I was working on the floor, and I told him.
No, I most certainly didn't want to.
Then the asshat went to the front desk and threw my name out like I referred him for the job posted.
Oh, I was so displeased.

I'll answer to Ma'am.  Miss.  Crystal.  Chrys.  Various other names from family and offspring.  Mimi to grandson.
But there is an intimacy in a name.  Your identity and experience are tied all up in there.

I'm often asked why I kept "Inman" as my last name after the divorce.  Quite simply, all my children have that last name.  And I wanted to keep THAT tie even though I severed the one with their father. So I'm building my professional career on a name that I married into and divorced out of.

That is what's important to me.  And it's a name that my children can now be proud of having.

Grins*

Do what you want

Permissive, aren't I?
heh

I sometimes wax philosophical.  This last weekend, quick though it was, seemed to be a stellar time for this.
And it came to me Saturday evening...what if everyone did what they wanted???
I'm speaking occupationally right now.
What if all people who wanted to be teachers were teachers?  And doctors were doctors?  And artists were artists?
What would that look like?
I firmly believe that we wouldn't have 50% in the medical field while only 10% in the teaching profession.  I honestly think it would all even out.
Because how many people out there are NOT where they want to be?  Working that 40+ work week with minimum wage but maximum stress?
Maybe you'd like to be an artist but went to nursing school.  Maybe you're a teacher but would like to be a lawyer.  Maybe you're a carpenter but would like to study ballet.

I think it would be beautiful.

What's that saying?  Love what you do, and you won't work a day in your life.  I'm paraphrasing and too lazy to look it up right now.  It's past four o'clock on a Monday afternoon.  I'm lucky my eyelids are not at half-mast.

But could you IMAGINE???

I'm not speaking of some dystopian clusterfuck like Divergent.  I'm not about the pigeonhole or anything of the like.
I'm speaking of true aptitude and need for spirit to find its niche.

It would be beautiful.
I simply know it.
*******

What weekend???

I commute.
A.  LOT.

I drive an hour each way, and it tends to wear on me come the end of the week.  Friday is completely shot since I don't arrive home until well after six, closer to seven.  Saturday should be the day of rebalance, but it never seems to be.  I'm sitting here and trying to remember what I did yesterday. Honestly.  Right now...it escapes me.  Today was church and then food prep for the week.
I've found out that the more I plan out during the week, the less stress I tend to accumulate.
Because, dear ones, isn't life stressful enough???

Now I'm sitting here at my desk.  It's almost six.  And this day is just...gone.  Poof.  I've done food prep and dishes and treadmill, and I'm flat tired.
I've looked at the day job schedule, and the week stretches out in front of me like that road painting that Wile. E. Coyote splashes on the rock, and the Road Runner zips right through.
Interminable.

I'm entirely convinced that this world is spinning faster.  That an hour, twenty years ago, is not the same as an hour now.  If time is wibbly-wobbly, then I believe it's wibbled a bit quicker over the years.
Rarely do I have time to simply enjoy.  Sit with the sun on my face.  Tap out a story with my writing playlist in my ears.  Weed the flower gardens and plant some seeds.  Sit with my grandson and just enjoy his perspective.

I've come to realize that time is a precious commodity, and I've also come to the point where I don't like to waste mine.  If I open a book, and it's complete trash...I'm done.  If I start a TV show on Netflix, and it numbs my mind...I'm done.

Time is ephemeral.  While some may think that's redundant, I believe it's quite apt.
Sixty seconds can be a lifetime.  Sixty years can be gone in the snap of your fingers.

Think I'll work on this a bit.  Maybe try to work my way around to not feeling like time is slipping through my fingers.
Work on being in the present.
Love those sixty seconds like the gift they are.
Grins*

Truck love

I tend to treadmill in the evening.  On the weekend, I walk during the day, and my treadmill faces the car wash.
I watched three men buff their trucks.  It was the damndest thing.
They were different ethnicities.  Two white trucks and one dark blue.  And they were polishing the hell out of these inanimate objects.
It tickled me.
Not going to lie.  I didn't understand it.  But I had to respect the commitment.
Then I began to wonder...are they like this with all facets of their lives?  Do they polish their relationships with friends/spouses/children?
I found it fascinating.
Or were they simply showering their love on this machine that didn't give two shits about them?
Was it all for show?  Was it pride?  Something else?
I wanted nothing more to swim in their heads and pluck out the answers.

I wanted their STORIES.
And I wanted them badly.

Did they grow up poor with old automobiles?  Did they procure a dream job that allowed them to have the truck of their fantasies?  Were they like male birds preening and polishing to attract a mate?

I never found out, of course.
It's a pity.

But I think that I'll file that away for another day and another story of my making.
Everything is fodder, dear ones.
Everything.
Grins*

Let there be site!

My website.
heh

Handy having the Honey who has a Master's in Computer Science who can help create webpages and whatnot.
So I'm working on a website now.  No damn pop-ups which my old one has.
Well, you know, free is free.  Over 5700 views.  And I worked my ass off on it with colors and fonts matching and pictures of my books.
I'm still incredibly proud of it.

But now I will have an official site that I help design.  Excited!

Links to Amazon and Goodreads with my books and reviews.  Tabs for free stories and whatnot. Different entrance for my Erotic Romance.  18+ disclaimer on there.  So much to do!!!

Off tomorrow since I work Saturday.  Not quite sure what I'll be doing besides a bit more editing. Going to be busy working on that for the next few.  And I don't feel like death like last weekend so I should be gold.
*grins*

On a personal note, my youngest is uber excited about baby boy's first birthday.  I can't believe it. Little Man will be one at the end of April.  Seems crazy.  Going to see his little booty today after work and grab some smooches while I can.  Feels like an eternity between smoochfests.

Totally random.
So.
I have Netflix now.  Yeah.  I know.  Welcome to 2016.
Anyway, I wanted it SO bad for "Jessica Jones".  Didn't finish that.  I'm savoring it like expensive chocolate since the new series doesn't start for a freakin' eternity.
But I started watching "Bones".  And holy shit.
I love it.
And I don't mean...blah blah blah...love it.  I mean OMG!!!  I had no idea it was this good.  I'm only on Season 3, and I haven't found an episode yet that disappoints.
Woot!
The series now has a coveted spot on my Amazon Wish List.
So.  Damn.  Good.
Grins*

You can have my nose spray when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers

This still holds true.  You try to grab my little plastic bottle of joy, and I will cut you.

I've had a horrible cold since last Wednesday/Thursday.  Spent Thursday/Friday/ most of Saturday in bed.  Still fighting having to BREATHE through my nostrils.
It sucks.

I thought it had gotten better only to wake up this morning and not be able to breathe ANY out of either nostril.  Silly me didn't bring my little bottle back to the bedroom.  I left it in my purse.
Lesson learned.
I'm thinking of making a little scabbard/pouch for it and strapping it to my waist.  Rather like Robin Hood's sword or Billy the Kid's gun.  I need it close by in case of sinus emergency.
sigh

Yes.  It's my medicinal crutch.
I've made peace with it.
Others need to do the same.

Grins*

Beta Readers

I've never had a Beta Reader or two.  I'd like a couple now.
I have more perspective when I've put a work down for a couple of weeks and then pick it back up.  I see things I wouldn't otherwise have caught.  And that's great.  But I need some fresh perspective from people who can give constructive criticism and ask questions I may not think to ask.

But, then again, I write extremely close to the vest.  I don't put titles out or character names.  I don't feel comfortable with that.  However, I'd like to cultivate some Beta readers that I feel comfortable with.  I need a writing social circle.
Which, by the way, would probably be bigger than any other social circle I have.
*grins*
Being the ambivert that I am.

Think I'll ponder this some more as I have time.
*******

Finding an Agent AKA Damn it! This is a great story!!!

Hello out there.

Yes.  I see you.  You're a writer.  You have voices in your head and calluses on your fingers and you mumble to yourself when you're really feeling it.
Grand, isn't it?
That rush when you're in the zone.  The feeling of all cylinders clicking away while you tap tap tap until the voices fade, and all you have is harmony.
Until you finish.
The End.
Ouch
Now.  Take a moment there.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Because that, my friend, was the easy part. Bleeding over verb usage and dialogue tags and passive writing was just an appetizer.  Now you're about to get down to it.
You are going to look for an agent.
Don't hide your eyes.  That sentence isn't going anywhere.  And neither will your story.  Unless you find an agent.
They're mystical creatures that can make or break a writer's heart from a thousand miles away with one simple email that starts out, "We're sorry..."
Dry your eyes.  Toughen up.  How hard can it be?

Let me learn you a thing or two.
This writing business is hard as hell and twice as nasty.  You will be asked to divvy up your literary delight in so many ways that you'll hardly recognize it.  Because each agent has different wants and needs for their business.
I can respect that.
Out of seventeen different agents, not ONE will want the same thing as another.  I guarantee it. Some want a synopsis and bio.  Then the first five pages.  Wait.  The first ten pages.  Writing history. Qualifications.  First three chapters.  First fifty pages.  One page synopsis.
If you have any hair left, you can pull it out now.
I have so many damn tabs open in Microsoft Word right now my eyes are beginning to cross.
No one said it would be easy.
Thank God.
Because I'd be tempted to beat that liar's ass.

Good luck to you.
I've always said it.
Good stories find a home.
Now make it so.
Grins*

Make it so

For some reason, my body has been in revolt this year.  I've been sicker these first two months than in the past two YEARS.
YEARS!!!
Right now my body composition is mostly nose spray.  One spritz every four to six hours?
BAHAHAHAHAHAHA
You're so cute.
I spritz until I can feel air passing through my sinuses.
Still can't taste or smell anything, but by God!  I can "breathe".
Two sinus episodes and one incredibly violent vomiting spell?
Color me done.  The rest of the year best be anti-climactic.

Even though I feel like someone beat me, ran me over, and then beat me again, I've decided to work on the writing and querying.  At somewhat of a crossroads on the third book.  I think I've puzzled it out so that won't be banging around my cranium any longer.

Gathering up my notes and making sure I have everything together so I can piece and polish my words.

Got to thinking about writing while I was having some breakfast.  It's not like I could taste my food so my mind started wandering again.  I'm always writing.  I think, perhaps, the only time I'm not writing is when I'm reading.  If it's a good book, then I disappear into it with nary a thought to the outside world and my own stories.  If it's a bad book, I throw it at the wall and don't waste my time.
But there's always SOMETHING.  It could be that indefinable something that pricks at your subconscious until you recognize it.  Or it could be that mystery meeting between characters that defines a scene.  There's always something, isn't there?

Part of me wants to simply curl up with Rainbow Rowell's "Carry On".  I've started it, and it's brilliant.  But the so-called "adult" in me knows I need to bang out some words for my own stories.  *grins*
And let's just say I'm glad that I can do this from home.  At my desk.  With my Einstein hair, pajama top, and bare feets.
Carry on, indeed.
Grins*

Too pooped to pop

Something my Mom used to say when we were frazzled.  And I find it still holds true.  Yesterday was a busy lovely day of the foul-mouthed merc and Patty Wagon for dinner.
Then, instead of actually resting, I found myself awake more than asleep last night/this morning.
I'm so paying for it.

Editing my second book.  I stop at a spot where I'm adding a bridge scene to link two different scenes, and all I could think about was laying my head down on the bed in my office/The Sanctuary and sleeping for a couple of hours.
Not too mention I forgot an important couple of pieces of paper at the day job.
So that all greatly inhales.

I'm just so damn tired.

Instead of finishing the edit, I think I may watch a mindless movie or read a book.  I'd like to watch "Rogue Nation" again.  I own it.  Thanks, Honey.  Or I could read the latest Rainbow Rowell.  Or maybe I could watch "The Magicians" on-demand.  The Lev Grossman books are brilliant.

Yet here I sit.  Brain-dead and too tired to do much about it.  I don't want to lose two or three hours of my day sleeping.  But I don't know if I have the werewithal to do much of anything else.

Last Sunday I wrote 5000 words.  This Sunday?  I'll be lucky not to drool on myself with my eyes open.

Grins*

Whole New World

No.
Not going to break out into the classic "Aladdin" song.  Tempting, though it is.

I've been querying agents.  Necessary process when you want representation.  Not so necessary if you want to self-publish.  And while I don't write for financial gain, nice side effect, I need a broader audience to read my works.
Therefore, I require an agent.
When I truly began writing over a decade ago, I hadn't a clue what I was doing.  Now, with a little experience under my belt, I have a small semblance of a clue.  *grins*
I remember querying agents when I didn't have a book published and wanted representation.  It was...painful.  Some were outright rude.  I remember it well.
But as I query for my five-book series, I've found it's a different ball game.  I've received five rejection emails so far.  And that's fine.  I comfort myself with the fact that I haven't found a good fit yet, and then I pull up the sites that tell me J.K. Rowling was rejected in the double digits.
Here's the difference:  These rejection letters are basically NICE.
NICE REJECTION LETTERS
Who knew?
I think it has to do with the fact that the Internet is a hell of a record keeper.  Agents and agencies that were rude are being called out on sites.  There is no need to be cruel to make a point.  There's never been a need for that.  So now they are apologetic, for the most part, and you don't feel like you've been emotionally eviscerated.
It's quite refreshing.
I've also grown as an artist that I don't take it personally.  That's what a decade of writing will do to you.  It thickens your skin and hones your skill.  Sharpens your wit and gives you enough distance from your work that you don't feel kicked in the nuts when someone doesn't want said work.

I'll continue querying.  I'm not even through one of my tiers yet.  And I'll keep writing because me not writing is something no one wants to be around.

For those that are also querying agents and looking for a literary home, good luck to you.
Keep writing.
Keep querying.
And for goodness sake, don't take the rejections personally.
If your story is ready, it will find a home.
Grins*

My Friday

Oh, yes.
I'm off tomorrow but have to work Saturday.  By the time this fourth Friday rolls around, I'm on the cusp of forgetting my humanity.  I'm tired and restless and need time for myself.  I don't think a lot of people understand that.
I need down time.  Even from myself.  Time to let my mind wander and pluck and embrace.  Time to breathe and know that I can wallow in the moment instead of having to be somewhere else doing something else.
piffle

Do I have big plans?
BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Um, no.

Next week is birthday week, and I have enough things planned for that, apparently, that I believe my day off tomorrow will be one to take it as slowly as possible and enjoy every minute.
And that becomes lost so easily in the day-to-day living.  Hamster wheel on high.  Gotta do.  Should have done.  Going to squeeze as much as I can into this 24 hours because I didn't have time before and OH MY GOD I don't think I can!
But, really?
Breathing?
That little thing your lungs do to keep you alive?
It needs to slow down.  It needs to even out.  It needs to be a priority.
It needs to influence the day more than the day needs to influence it.

I have literally had clerks ask me if I'm in a hurry because I'm twitchy and in fast mode.  And guess what?
It's my day off.
I have nowhere to be.
But I'm still in manic mode.

Have to work on that one.
Grins*

Pieces of me

Hard at work when all three of my babies, and my baby's baby, came to see me.
Did you ever have that feeling that heart was literally going to BURST with love?
I was close to my mother growing up.  That went away for quite some time.  Now we're back to being amicable, but there's still distance.  My father passed away a few years ago.
But my children?  My 20, 21, and 22 year old???  And my 9 month old grandson?
Holy shit.
They are my world.
I look at them and know that I've done something right.
I'll have bestsellers.  I'll work too hard not to.
But the best parts of my life live in my babies.
They are smart and beautiful and flawed and sarcastic.  They always hug and kiss me and tell me they love me.  They're good people who help others and work hard for themselves.  And no, they're not perfect.  I love them.  I'm not struck stupid by them.  *grins*

So the best part of this incredibly long week happened about two hours ago.  When my beautiful babies and one grandbaby graced me with their presence and spent some time with a woman who loves them more than life.

*******

You don't know fear

You don't know fear until your youngest child calls and tells you she's been in a wreck with your grandson in the back seat.  She's incredibly upset.  Some high school chick ran a stop sign, and my youngest clipped the chick's back tire while the entire left side of her bumper/lights/fender are fucking toast.
The Baby Chicken had to go to the ER.  Her shoulder and collarbone are separated.  She has her wing in a sling.
Little Man is fine, thank God.  He was, however, quite put out that when BC called the police, he had to stay in his car seat.  Which, thank you God again, was on the OTHER side of the car.
So my adrenals hit overdrive early, and I'm dragging ass right now.
Went to boy child's daycare and took pictures of BC's car.  Contacted the other insurance agency to make a claim.  Hoping this is handled fairly expediently.
*deep breath*

So glad tomorrow is Friday, and there's a weekend on my horizon where I know that MC will be staying with BC and helping with Little Man.  I'll be able to sleep in.  So on and so forth.  It seems lately that every day is fraught with all sorts of hectic.  I'm ready to slow down a bit.  Watch some Thunder basketball.  THUNDER UP!!!  Edit my second book and work on some writing.
And let's hope, unlike the past two weekends, that I actually feel like I've had one, shall we?
Because that would be oh-so-new-and-different.
piffle

Totally random.

I like to cook.  I mean...I LIKE it.  And I absolutely love the Pioneer Woman's cookbooks.  The recipes, pictures, and little comments are great.  I currently have her Dinnertime book on my desk.  I shall drool over the pictures and convince myself I'm capable of making at least a couple of dishes.
But let me tell you something.  When I'm a little better off, I'm hiring a cook.  It's just going to happen.  I don't mind laundry and vacuuming and dusting, but by GOD!!!  I need someone to slave in my kitchen and make me delicacies.
From her books.
That is all.
Grins*

On the hunt

I remember beginning my writing career hellbent on finishing my first story and then wanting so badly to have it somewhere, anywhere, readers could enjoy it.
I'm a bit older and wiser now.  I've actually finished two of a five-book series and am about twenty percent through the third.  And only now have I polished the pieces to begin searching for an agent.
Some of it stems from my home burning to the ground after I committed to a four-book series with time commitments and having my life fall apart.  The other?  I'm giving myself breathing room, and I love it.
There are people I come across that have asked me over the span of these past couple years about my writing.  I tell them, quite honestly, that I need to finish at least the first two of the five before I'll even begin searching for the proper agent.  I also have an Erotic Paranormal and a work of Philosophical fiction on my plate.  Both are started with around ten thousand words each.
It's not like I've been twiddling my thumbs.  But after having books come out sometimes twice a year, I've decided to concentrate more on several projects.
I'd go mad if I couldn't write.
Hell, my family would have me committed, I'm quite sure.
heh

So I'm on the hunt for that perfect fit that I'm sure I'll find.
Because not only am I a writing fool, I'm an optimistic fiend.
Grins*

Back in the Game

I never quit writing.  Or thinking of writing.  Or making notes on my phone about writing.  I dream of it.  I go to sleep to the thought of it.  I'm constantly...writing.  Even when I'm not.

I'm working on several pieces right now.  First and foremost would be the five-book series.  Book one is finished.  Book two lacks perhaps three thousand or so words.  I've written about twelve thousand on book three.  As soon as I publish this blog, I'm back at it.

Writers will tell you that no one understands them.  And that's incredibly true.  Only other writers can appreciate the madness that grips when ideas flood your gray matter.  Must.  Write.  Now.

And we bitch about editing or a synopsis or God knows what.  And we certainly do.  But we love it. Every damn word.  Every damn edit.  Every damn breath we breathe into the story.

Creative people are quite mad.  They hear things others don't.  They see things others don't.  They FEEL things others don't.  It as if there's a plane of existence slightly above the one we're meandering around on now.  Where all these characters and their stories are simply waiting to be written.  And when a writer plugs into that...it's magic.

So now I'm going to be searching for a home for my stories.  And I find it interesting how picky I can be.  How I want so badly for my stories to fit in just...the...right...spot.  I won't take less than that from anyone.  My stories deserve nothing but the perfect fit.  They deserve a home where they are appreciated and enjoyed.

That's where my journey is taking me.  Out into the wilderness.  Finding my path.  Books tucked firmly beneath my arm.  Warm patchwork scarf wrapped around my neck.  I'll knock on doors until I find the one where my books and I are welcome to come in and warm ourselves by the fireplace and perhaps have a cup of hot cocoa.

Then I'll know we're home.
********

Fifty Shades of...

...my thoughts.

I was going to leave this alone, but I once told a group of people at an Author's Panel to never let something go that you can't get out of your mind.
This blog post will be a testament to that.
So then.
Fifty Shades of Grey.
When it first came out, I had little to no interest.  I had opened the first book at random and read a couple of pages.  It was...meh.  Then the movie came out, and I thought (being a visual person) that I might enjoy the story better that way.
I was wrong.
I'm not here to bash E.L. James.  Not going to happen.  Not in the way she's been bashed before, anyway.  The mere content of these books is a trigger.  BDSM, for many, is a trigger because it's not a consensual act but a horrible power play between someone being the aggressive and someone being the submissive.  But it's not.  While I don't practice the lifestyle, I can see where it might appeal to some.
Christian Grey was indoctrinated into the lifestyle by an older woman.  He thought that she gave him the perfect outlet for those parts of him that he deemed not normal.  The abuses he suffered as an extremely young boy manifested themselves out into this chosen lifestyle.  And while he refers to himself as "fucked up", it's quite clear that he considers being a submissive, and then a Dominant, integral to who he is.
And he believes that only through this lifestyle will he be able to connect physically with someone.  I find the psychology behind that fascinating.
My problem with the story stems from it being contrived.
Good authors try to make a seamless story that readers can follow through with no hitches or bumps in the narrative.  Great authors succeed.
While I didn't read the book, it's been said that the movie closely follows it.  And if that's true, then I shudder at some scenes.
When Anastasia Steele (and God help me, that name is contrived all by itself) drinks too much and drunk dials Christian, he shows up JUST IN TIME to save her from a friend who is becoming too handsy.  My eye literally twitched.
When he happens to show up when she's with her mother, it was all I could do not to stop the movie right then and there.  I mean...c'mon!
And then this older woman is thrown into the mix right in time for there to be conflict.  Seriously.  I hadn't heard her name before, and suddenly she's all over the place.  Ugh.
Stories, no matter the content, should neither be choppy nor contrived.  They should flow smoothly.
Our protagonist, Ms. Steele, walks the fine line between Too Stupid To Live and simply naive.  I struggled with her character in the movie because she made me literally wince.  Falling into his office.  Losing her place in her notes.  So I took a breath and tried to imagine myself in that position.
Early twenties.  Innocent.  Sheltered.  Settled.  Perhaps a billionaire would upset my little world, also.  Doesn't make her more appealing to me, but I find myself trying to understand her actions.
To sum up, it's a "C" movie.  It's not great.  It's not even particularly daring.
Average storyline.  Below average writing.  Above average casting.
Because hello, Mr. Dornan.  I've missed you since they killed your ass off "Once Upon a Time".
There will be two more movies to round out the trilogy.  It'll probably be one and a half too many.
Grins*

Get a set

*blows out breath*
Alrighty then.
I love writing.  Love it.  There's is nothing else that touches me like the words.
So what's my problem?

I've dicked around for hours today because at the end of my list is writing.  But not any writing.  No. It's my TFH novel.
And it hurts me.

Let me explain.
I am an empathetic person to the point I can't watch reality shows because they embarrass and raise my blood pressure.
I stopped watching "Deal or No Deal" because I was living and dying by those sorry ass little fucking suitcases.
The Honey thought I was sleeping during "Tammy" with Melissa McCarthy.  I wasn't sleeping.  I was averting my eyes from the screen because I was embarrassed for her in a couple of scenes.  Ok.  Let's be honest, most scenes.  geez

I banged out several thousand words last time I worked on it.  Now I need to go back and flesh some scenes out.  But they hurt.  It's not pretty.  It's not a romance.
I can literally only take so much of the ugly before I have to take a step or four back.  I can only take so much intensity before it wraps itself around and chokes me.
This story needs to be written.  I need to write it.
It's important.

On a semi-related note:  Killing your darlings.  Stephen King advocates offing characters.  I've only purposely killed one character, and I felt bad.  But I knew he wasn't going to make it from the get-go. A lot of readers become attached to characters.  That's the mark of a good writer and book.  Not only have you breathed life into a character, but they've also found a home with others.  That's powerful writing.

Now I'm wrestling with characters and trying to soothe myself through the process.  It's exhausting.
One of my favorite sayings:  If it was easy, everyone would do it.
Guess I need to get a set.
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Equality for ALL

Flags are symbolic.  

When you fly the flag of your Alma Mater, you are proud and recognize the great traditions that the institution represents.

A Confederate flag symbolizes slavery, death, and denigration.

It’s no laughing matter when you post opposing college school flags or NFL flags and say those “offend” you.

Really?  What, exactly, offends you?  Be specific?  Did any of those “longhorns” come and rape your girlfriend?  Whip your father until he died?  Fight to keep you and your kin in chains?  Please.  Do tell.  I don’t remember any of that in the History books.

How about we make a flag that symbolizes prejudice against redheads?  Or short people?  Or tall people?  Or those with blue eyes?  Green eyes?  

Let’s make all rednecks fix cars and hunt.  They don’t need a degree.  And how about all women under twenty-five need to be married.  You don’t need a degree, either.  You can be the little woman that your man takes care of.  And poor people must remain poor.  They obviously don’t have the intelligence to do anything but be a drain on society in general.  Take back women’s right to vote.  We don’t need that.  Who do we think we are, anyway?

Let’s just use the hell out of stereotypes.  Because THAT’S what you’re supporting.  Outdated and societal ills that plagued our nation in the past.  So why can’t you leave it there?  Where it belongs?  I don’t care if we leave Confederate flags hanging in museums.  That’s where they belong.  If you honestly feel the need to pepper your vehicle and your front porch with the same, do it.  Tattoo your damn ass.  I don’t care!!!

However, all government building needs them removed.  Any place that serves the people, all people, needs them removed.  There are no people in this nation that need a constant reminder that they were property in the past.  That they could be harm or killed for simply having a different skin color. 

My grandson is biracial.  And, quite frankly, he’s fucking beautiful.  Woe to ANYONE that says or treats my grandson differently because of his appearance. 

Black people are less than.  Our ancestors fought to prove that.  And this flag shows how proud I am of that moment in history.

Really?  You prejudicial asshole.  THAT’S what you’re proud of?  By the way, I’ve READ the history of the “Stars and Bars” and subsequent Confederate flags.  It’s sickening.

Speaking of history, let’s go back a bit further.

We are on Native American land.  That dirt you’re stomping on with your self-righteous shoes belonged to others long before it was yours.

Do you see the idiocy yet?  If not, look a bit closer.

Where does it fucking stop?

And now, guess what?

EVERYONE has the right to marry.

*gasp*

LEGALLY marry anyone they choose.  Regardless of sexual orientation.

Some people are up in arms because OMG…these homosexuals are throwing their sexuality in my face.  Sick bastards.  Twisted people.

I can guarantee you that there are some so-called “straight” people out there that are doing things that would trigger a homosexual individual’s gag reflex.

Bedroom things can stay bedroom things.  Privacy is sacrosanct. 

Marriage is simply that legal bond that says two people believe that they are meant for each other and wish to be bound together in this world for life. 

For those that wish to throw the Bible at this argument, please don’t.  It doesn’t hold water.  Because if you wish to pick out passages talking about marriage, then you need to read all the definitions of it in the Bible.  And some of those, my friends, are distinctly horrible.

All people should be treated with dignity.  If you’re incapable of that, then YOU are the one with the problem.

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