WhiteWashed, a Pitch Fest, and The Ooze Walk Into A Bar

My brain hurts.

I just finished an entire book run through of editing WhiteWashed. This is what my brain feels like:

Like a LOST plane crash.

I'm pretty sure it will all be ready for the Writeoncon pitchfest.

Right now? This is how I feel about my MS:

It's just so pretty. There are wonderful phrases. It makes me laugh. There's some intense emotional scenes. It has poem/song things. It's so gorgeous.

And I know tomorrow it won't be so beautiful anymore.

Instead I will be thinking: "What is this baby? This isn't mine." But then I'll learn to love it anyway, just like the Hunchback.

And then eventually an agent will get their hands on it.

"Noooooo!!"

And then an editor will get their hands on it.

Only, if I should ever faint, I hope some
creepy man doesn't appear out of nowhere.

But for now:

"It's mine. My own. My Precious."

Now I just have to figure out the pitch part.

Me and Animals and How Life Taunts Me

Me: I don't really like animals.

Life: Really? You really don't like animals?

Me: Meh. Not really.

Life: *laughing evilly* So you don't like this? *sticks a wombat in my face*

Me: AWWWW. It's so cute! I want one!

Life: *bunts the wombat back to Australia* No! Wombats are not domesticated. Wombats can dig through concrete. Wombats could eat your face off and tear you limb from limb. You cannot have a wombat.

Me: Fine. I still don't like animalS. I just like A animal.

Life: Really?

Me: Yes.

Life: *laughs evilly* *pulls a quokka from behind its back* What about this?

Me: AWWWW. It's so cute I want one!

Life: *laughs manically and bunts quokka back to Australia* No! You can't have one! They're not domesticated. They are dying off and being eaten by cats and dogs and those other animals you disregard. You cannot have a quokka!

Me: *sobbing* Why Australia? Why? Why do you have such cute animals? I hate you forever!

Life: *runs off laughing in nefarious glee*

Me: *shakes fist* Oh, life, how I hate thee sometimes.

Two Sentence Post

It's not about what we want to do...

It's about what we decide to do.

Grief

This story bit was written after one of the professors, Dr. Murphy, passed away. He was a good friend of my professor and when I was sitting in class my professor’s grief was tangible. I wrote this scene about a person (I imagine her female because I am female, but it could just as easily be male) who can only feel emotion through other individuals. They are incapable of feeling emotion on their own, and must live vicariously through others.

“You think you know something about grief?” he laughed a dry dusty old tome of a laugh.

“Something, yes. Not personally, but I know something. I know it’s a drop of bittersweet dark chocolate under the tongue that makes you swallow, and swallow, and feel just a little bit like choking. I know it’s salt tears burning your eyes red. A hollow gut spilling out of your skin in waves, and waves. I know it’s the question why. That deep-seated child asking why were they here and now they’re not?”

“That’s not grief,” he said. “That’s poetry.”

“Grief is poetry.”

At first he said nothing and his eyes were nothing and his arms were so still and his body was so rigid he became a little bit of nothing. “That’s not what grief is. Grief is not poetry.”

“Then what is it?” I demanded, a clawed monster of pain awakening in my stomach and ripping, flailing, trying to find a way up my throat, but its legs were stuck in my stomach and so it reached, and reached behind my eyes and scratched away at my retinas.

“You’ll know when it comes,” he said quietly, and left. The monster left with him, and the pain, and the regret, and the relief, and the ever-present haunting that death left behind. I wrapped my arms around myself and waited to feel again.

**Also: Sorry about my recent trend in writing horribly sad posts. I will have something a little more positive in a few days if all goes well.

Car Trouble

She was drinking coffee. Bad idea. But she knew if she didn't she would go find alcohol - and for an alcohol intolerant person that was even worse of an idea. So the coffee worked as a distraction. For a few moments. Then it would all come back and she would reach for another marshmallow. The bag was almost half-empty already. She would eat one - or five - every time it came back. Every time she remembered.

She kept telling herself it wasn't that bad. Nothing had actually happened. She was fine and she was safe. But that refrain kept coming into her head and parading like a demented mechanical chicken. My car was on fire. I could have died.

She had taken a long bath and had bought new clothes (well, they were used, but still, new to her) to put distance between herself and what had happened. Also, to get away from the burnt car smell that clung to her like a needy boyfriend.

The car ride had started out well enough, except for the delay. She had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Pittsburgh. But she had pulled out her map and been able to find her way back to 79 South. It had been about an hour out of the way, but it could have been worse, and she had been able to figure it out all on her own without a GPS. Just an old beat up atlas.

That's when her car started acting funny. She had gone to the nearest gas station, just to be sure. Everything looked fine. All fluids where they needed to be, no leaking, tires good.

I should have called my dad. But she hadn't. It had driven without problem for about an hour. That's when the smoke started. And then the panic. She dialed home. No answer. Her dad. Still no answer. Mom? Yes. She was driving but would call back. She hung up.

It smelled like smoke. Like a lot of smoke. She was just thinking of getting out of the car when someone pulled over in front of her. A small white car. A man jumped out and ran to her, so she rolled down her window.

"Yours car is on fire. You need to get out."

The panic. The waiting. The continual phone calls. Fire fighters pulling stuff out of the back of her car and tossing it aside while they tried to cool the car down. It was too hot. There was so much smoke. This isn't real. This doesn't happen in real life. But it was happening. Later, car dropped off at a shop, waiting for her dad to pick her up, she walked through the dollar store and felt nothing. She was walking. She was standing. Her eyes were open. But no sense data was coming through. There was nothing. Just a floating body of white noise. So she got a hotel room and took a bath and put on her new clothes and called her grandmother.

That's when the shaking started. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if worse things had happened to her. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad it she knew she could afford a new car. Or if she wasn't alone in West Virginia.

She took another sip of the coffee she wasn't supposed to be drinking and reached for another marshmallow. She waited for her dad to come and for the shaking to stop.

Second Time Charms

SO, a long time ago my sister taught me the basics of painting. This was over five years ago when I was in highschool and only wanted to write and was not really interested in any other types of artistic expression. Or. That's how I remember it. I could be wrong.

BUT, so, my sister Rebecca of Awesomeness, taught me the basics of painting and we used watercolor. I dabbled around with some painting and drawing after that. (Heehee, dabble is a funny word.)

And you know what. I lied. I was always interested in drawing. And music. I'm just forgetting my childhood. Forgive me.

BUT a few years ago I sort of gave up on painting. I still drew stuff, mostly stick figures. I was obsessed with stick figures. I tried to figure out how legs would like while running, how to make stick figures squat or sit cross legged or hug. Arms and legs go all over the place while people hug, and when you just have sticks it can sometimes look ridiculous. BUT I had pretty much given up on the paint because I didn't think I was very good, and rather than failing, or investing time and money into something I wasn't going to be good at, I just hid my canvases and my easel that my parents bought me for Christmas and I quietly pretended that I wasn't interested.

These were my first two paintings that I did on canvas. They're as "book covers" for the first book series I ever (seriously) wrote. I graduated early just to write these series. But I was younger, and I didn't know how hard the publishing world really is, and I was so full of hope and silliness. I am still planning on doing something with Lands of Earac on day. It will just be a little while. I still need to edit it and stuff. BUT, that's what these paintings were from. And then I quietly set them on my bookshelf and went on with my life, doodling and dreaming and writing and learning.

THEN... Last semester I had a new roommate. I have mentioned her before, and I will probably mention her quite often. You know how sometimes there's a turning point in your life and there's that one person who was there during that turning point and they helped you through and they were there for you and they changed you in a vats number of little tiny penetrable ways? That was my roommate. She painted. She was the catalyst that got me painting again.

And, of course, I don't actually have a picture of that first painting that I did, BUT, it was a found art painting. It was my diagram of the universe using buttons and string and chains and shiny things. And I found something out. I really, really like painting. AND I could paint without having to be fancy or do people or animals or living things. I could be abstract and crazy because I am abstract and crazy. SO. I started making paintings for friends' weddings:

 And then as gifts and then I realize... Hey. This is like mixing scrapbooking and painting together. AND my sister gets paid to scrapbook and my brother-in-law gets paid to paint SO, what if I could actually do this for fun, and as a small business? So I started gathering together paint and canvases.

A few days later my mum and dad had to go to a birthday party and they were saying, "We don't know what to get as a present, because the kid has everything already." Kind of joking around I said, "Hey, you could pay me and I could make something. You would just have to gather random nominally flat objects from the party and I could make a commemorative painting."

Then I got home that night to a cup full of birthday stuff and monies. *le gasp of happiness* SO I made this:

SO now I'm thinking about calling it Second Time Charms, as per one of my friends suggestions. Eventually I'll be able to also make things like wind chimes out of bottle caps and painted boxes and things. BUT I like the idea because it's a tasteful and unique way to preserve memories without taking up space and allowing easy access to look at it. You just have to put it on the wall. And I've also made ones as presents where I just use elements that remind me of that person. For my brother I made one with random rusty things, because, he likes random rusty things:

SO it's something that can be designed specifically for you for whatever you want. Birthday parties, graduations, weddings, bat mitzvahs, bar mitzvahs, or ramadan parties. Or Arbor Day parties. If you want it done as a memorial you just have to send me elements from the event. Invitations, candles, cut-off bits of tablecloth, centerpieces, whatever. OR, you just have to tell me that someone like nature and flowers and I'll work with that. I'm really hoping this is something I can do for reals, because I like doing it, and it's fun, and it not stressful, and I think it's something that isn't really out there right now. But I think it's something that could be nice for people to have.

SO. That is Second Time Charms, by ELM. (That's my painting name.) If you have any suggestions just let me know :) I appreciate all y'all. Hope you're having a good beginning of September!

Back to College

Well, hello my lovely LamNams. I have not been around in forever.

I do sometimes post over here at Booksellers Without Borders NY. I'm supposed to be posting on Thursdays about Middle Grade books. I miss this past Thursday because I was in RA training all day. And all week. And I'm still in RA training. Fortunately we have the weekend off to kind of decompress and chill our faces off. It's been kinda' intense at times. Mostly just time-consuming.

SO, what have I been doing all of this time? I was working again at a small Playhouse (a musical theatre) in the Box Office. It was basically working in a shack in the middle of the woods while answering phone calls from old people. It was fun though. I worked like, 10-12 hr shifts though, so... I didn't really exist enough to be able to spend time over here.

This is My Little Box I Lived in This Summer

ALSO, I was trying to get together with ALL THE FRIENDS. I did get to run down and see my roommate (I think I will always call her that, even though she is transferring out to a state far away from mine, and we aren't technically roommates anymore because I am an RA and I have a room all to myself but... where was this thought going? I think I'm supposed to have stopped this parenthesis thought by now.) which was awesome.

Except the part where I got pulled over

AND, we had our giant family birthday, since since about five of us all have birthdays between the end of July and mid September.

WHAT ELSE: I went to BEA (did I already tell you about that? I don't know.) and so have been trying to keep up on my reading of ARCs and so forth.

This is just a small portion... The ones I brought with me to school

OH! I started painting again and I'm hoping to turn that into a small business, which I shall tell you about more at a later point.

SO FAR this is an extremely dull post but as I am - at times- and extremely dull person that is quite alright.

I AM going to be super busy this year with classes, and RAing (which means I am a resident assistant, and have to make sure all the Residents on my hall obey the rules and are taking care of themselves physically and emotionally, and whatnot.) annnnnd doing everything else that I always try to do.

From Hyperbole and a Half

I WILL TRY and write a post every weekend (Friday, Saturday, or Sunday) just to try and keep in contact with this side of the world, because I KNOW I've been losing touch all over the place and that makes me sad inside.

I HOPE to be around more often, HOWEVER, I am realistic and realize that PROBABLY won't happen. Because I'm a bum.

ANYWAY, I hope y'all had a good summer, and continue to have a good rest of the summer, AND I hope to see you all soon. I give hugs to all of you, unless you are creepy, in which case I give you a friendly handshake instead.

Only a Hand Shake for You. If That.