Oy...

Yeah, so this morning was a total waste writing wise because I got sucked into blog reading again (damn you, you interesting strangers) and I am now about 10,000 words behind on my NaNo schedule...meaning, I should be at the very least at 30,000 words into my novel and I'm at around 19,000. So I've really got to do the marathon thing over the next couple of days because I'm a fierce competitor and after just reading that others have already hit 50,000, I feel like killing them all, those gloating little bastards.

Meanwhile, I can't even handle the premise that it's Thanksgiving next week and stores are all decorated for Christmas. All my brain can digest is Oh hell, this is the last weekend I can shop for anything without having to stand in a fucking line. Like shopping itself isn't bad enough.

It took me an hour to get dressed the other morning because I couldn't find two socks that matched. So I finally out of desperation go to the Gap, a store I personally despise, but it's two doors down from my office and they have the socks I like - 3 pair for $9.00. Cool, huh? Errr...no.

"Where's the socks?" I ask the clerk, after running around that stupid store for 15 minutes. I mean, they've been in the same spot since it opened.

"Oh, they're right in front. Can I assist you in your selection?" said the 16 year old sassy clerk with the shiny pink lip gloss.

Yeah, I need sock assistance.

"No thanks."

But she follows me anyway.

Wait. What's this? My socks are now 3 pair for $24.00? What the fuck?

"Um..maybe you can help me? These socks are $24.00?"

"Those are our special holiday socks," she beams at me.

"They look just like the ones I always buy for $9.00." I'm honestly perplexed. And pissed. I'm not cheap, but $24.00 for socks?

"No, no, look - these have a little decoration on the side."

Jesus fucking Christ.

So this is what I have to endure until December 26.

Anyway, regarding Thanksgiving, the good news is, we're just doing an intimate, immediate family dinner. Yes! I can cook my little heart out but don't have to clean the house to impress visitors. I can totally trash my kitchen and not care, which means I can bake bread, make 87 pies, pile the dirty pots and pans everywhere and then make everyone eat on paper plates.

Nah, just kidding.

Maybe.

I'm losing it...

I should be happy. All this stuff going on with my novel, two books in progress, yesterday I got not one but two emails asking for interviews - one from my absolute favorite college radio station for a 2-3 minute spot, the other from one of my favorite writers on behalf of one of my absolute favorite zines...and even better - I suddenly have all these ideas for short stories. So why do I feel like jumping out a window?

Oh right. My day job, which at the moment is sucking all the energy out of me and taking up all of my wide awake time. My continuing desire to split my life between a computer screen and traveling and little else is starting to overwhelm me. I've really got to figure out how to do this and soon.

Sigh...why can't I be a twenty year old trust fund kid? Or where's that white knight who will ride up on that big old horse and rescue me? Yeah, yeah, I know. That's a fairy tale.

Crap.

Night Train Reading

This was a truly awesome Bed & Breakfast in the truly awesome town of Kings Park, New York, but don't be deceived by the photo. There were no people who actually worked at this Bed and Breakfast. Never once during the two days I was there did I see any staff, maid service - nobody whatsoever - which was wonderful because all of the writers and guests for the Night Train event/reading had the place to ourselves.

(I must admit, for a brief drunken moment Saturday night, I wanted to be Keith Moon and get wild and trash every room. Why? BECAUSE I COULD! But I didn't, because I love Sue Henderson and Rusty Barnes and wanted to be invited back to Night Train events again. In fact, I was the one worried that we left a mess - dirty wine glasses, empty beer bottles, etc. and I ran around cleaning up after people went to bed, but I did not go so far as to wash all the dishes in the sink)

Also don't be deceived by the grounds. They were lovely, but not on acres as it appears in the photo and oddly enough, smack in the middle of a charming suburbanish fishing town in Long Island, surrounded by normal, residential homes.

I dug it to no end. It was the kind of inn you'd find in Europe. Eclecticly decorated with everything from antiques to oriental rugs to weird art (think a sadistic mother goose choking a chicken and I mean that literally) to our suite which had a lava lamp with little fishies in it. The main sitting room had a giant stuffed dead porcupine with its mouth open in horror, stuck to a cork board, over the entranceway. I'm guessing that's because...no forget it, I have no guesses. No guesses at all.

And ah, the suite. When we opened the always unlocked door (at no point did any of us have keys because as I said, there was no staff), the first thing that greeted us was a huge four poster bed. Behind that was a small dorm type room with two twin beds. There was a large sitting room with a fireplace and sofas and chairs and even a bookcase stocked with best sellers and a Scrabble game; and a giant kitchen with everything from a microwave to one of those old fashioned sandwich makers with which you make grilled cheese over the gas range.

The suite was on the lower level kind of, apart from the main house, which is where most everyone else stayed, so they just had bedrooms and shared a sitting room and kitchen. There were three of us in the lower "suite", which I immediately dubbed The Honeymoon Suite because of the rather large bed.

Anyway, here's the complete list of awesome people with whom I hung out, talked off their ears and listened intently while they talked off mine, and partied throughout the weekend: Sue Henderson, Ellen Meister, Pia Ehrhardt, Rusty Barnes, John Leary, John Warner, Gail Siegel, Paul Toth and cool wife Kathy, Terry Bain, Joe Young, Jeff Landon, Tom Jackson and his lovely wife Deb, Todd Zuniga, editor of Opium, and his significant other, Amanda, who I believe will now be poetry editor of Opium (gorgeous New Yorkers who look all of about ten years old) -- plus I got to meet Ellen and Sue's husbands, both handsome, kind and charming men! (Like who didn't know they'd have THAT at home).

The readers were just unbelievable. Sue and Pia read two powerful short stories each, Terry Bain, Paul Toth, John Leary and John Warner read excerpts from their brilliant novels and anyone reading this should immediately google them or write to me and I'll give you the links to their stuff because you should all buy their books and support them, plus, you'll be in for a real treat; then there was Jeff Landon, who lost his stories somewhere between Virginia and New York and ended up handwriting them from memory, and he was hilarious (one line in particular - he's talking about a love affair when he was sixteen and his girlfriend is begging him to "Make it last this time, baby" but of course "he never could"...and then Jeff made a side note to the audience "Oh, that is sooo not true" (and he said it in his really great southern drawl, and well, I hope I'm not forgetting anyone because the reading was so chock full of interesting people. Oh, Tom Jackson of Zoetrope and Night Train was a truly inspiring emcee for the evening. And I want to give a special shout out to John Warner, who somehow managed to keep his cool because he read at the end, just shortly prior to which a large, loud, rowdy drunk crowd showed up and basically almost drowned him out, but he continued on with poise and dignity. If it were me, I'd have stopped in the middle, turned around, and screamed SHUT THE FUCK UP ASSHOLES.

Yeah, sure. I'm such a wimp I probably would have started to cry, but he held his ground and kept reading and he deserves a trophy.

I also want to add that Sue's husband and his band provided the entertainment, and they were really cool and a lot of fun. People were actually dancing!

So yep, it was a great weekend. Networking, talking reading and writing, getting wasted...what more in life does one need?

Just one thing: Jeff Landon, baby, YOU SNORE. You snore so loud you make plaster crack. You make light bulbs break. You make ceiling tiles fall. I heard you snoring through a thick oak door with a TV on!

But you are great writer, dude, so we all forgive you.

Leaving you with a story...

Okay, so I'm not missed too much while I'm gone, here's a new story of mine published just yesterday in The Beat UK.



Wedding Night

I Wish To Register A Complaint

I wish to register a complaint. That last excerpt really, really sucked. I lost my edge and got all sappy. God I hate when that happens.

That and I'm not really into it at the moment because I know I won't be able to get any writing in for the next two days which would normally kill me but I'm going away for the weekend to the Night Train Magazine event (no one reading this better be a stalker) and hearing and seeing some of my favorite writers/people so I suppose it'll be okay.

Jesus Christ, that was the world's longest sentence. Damn wine. No really, I'm totally psyched. The line up of authors is incredible: Susan Henderson, Jeff Landon, Pia Z. Ehrhardt, Paul Toth, John Warner, John Leary, Terry Bain.

Okay, I'll be quiet. I could be writing now. I should, huh.

Three Days in New York City

So as I've been shouting from a few thousand rooftops, my novel will be available January, 2005.

Here's the link to the novel and my publisher: Three Days in New York City

Yay!

Ha! A new reason to live...

Cream Stirring Up 2005 Reunion

Vintage rock trio Cream will reunite for a string of shows next year at London's Royal Albert Hall, sources tell Billboard.com. The group -- guitarist/vocalist Eric Clapton, drummer Ginger Baker and bassist Jack Bruce -- played its final shows at Albert Hall before splintering in November 1968. Cream has not performed together since its 1993 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Billboard.com understands the trio will begin rehearsals after the first of the year, with an eye on a week-long run of gigs at Albert Hall. It is unknown if plans call for additional shows in other parts of the world. A spokesperson for Clapton had no comment.
************

So...anyone over in the UK willing to put me up for a week?

NaNo NaNo

Oy.

NaNo is killing me this year.

Who came up with this concept, anyway? A novel of 50,000 words in 30 days during the month of November. I still haven't recovered from the election for fuck's sake.

Where is all my past enthusiasm? I was pretty happy this morning when I discovered I had over 11,000 words written for The Tour, until I realized how off target I am. I need 25,000 words by November 15 to stay on track. This would be easy - 2,333 words a day - if I didn't have this fucking day job and I wasn't going to be away for the weekend.

So far this week, besides my job, I still have some editing on my upcoming novel; I have to somehow throw a press packet together for this weekend which means bribing my daughter because it involves the use of Adobe Photoshop and I am completely hopeless at that; I've been talking to my publisher actively about the sequel to Three Days and now that this has happened, I can't shut my brain off and I want to work on that; I have a bunch of stories to read and review for my editing gig at Philadelphia Stories, and normally, I would love all of the aforesaid but I have to do it all in conjunction with the every day, mundane crap I hate like bill paying, cooking, cleaning, etc.

Okay, I'm lying. I'm ordering pizza/Chinese food all week and kicking shoes under the sofa. And the kids have enough clothes so that I probably don't have to do the wash for another month.

But still.

I want to drop out of NaNo so bad but I can't. I'm Philadelphia Municipal Liaison.
Why did I take that on, too?

BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING LUNATIC!

I need help.

Yin Yang

It never fails. I have a really good day and then something gets fucked up later.

It's freezing in here, the weather guy says frost and worse for the next few days, so I think, okay, even though I hate my basement I'm going down. I have gas heat so I better make sure everything is cool before I turn it on and blow myself up. The kids are at a Project Object concert tonight and I'd hate for them to come home and find pieces of bloody flesh all over the walls. So I work up the guts (cos' I'm also convinced there's critters of some sort living in my cellar) but as it turns out, the door is blocked by a PA system on top of which is a precarious stack of CDs, books, and a half eaten Reese's peanut butter cup.

Note to self: Crack down on domestic goddess duties or make the kids your slaves...or better yet, get them to clean up after themselves without coming off as a nag. Or just say Fuck it who cares like you always do.

Anyway, so now I can't go downstairs so I decide Hey, I know, I'll light the season's first fire in the fireplace.

I dunno, I thought I opened the flue but apparently not. I managed to avert disaster but couldn't get the fire alarm to stop going off. I had to stand on a chair and remove the battery.

So yeah, back to reality. I feel like I just ran a marathon. Didn't buy the Stella yet but I do have Yuengling.

And here's how I intend to spend the money...

Anyone care to join me? Ha!

Sorry. It's not every day I earn $50.00 for one of my stories. Or win anything.

Damn it, why do I have to be stuck at work now! And why does it have to be Monday, my most hated day of the week? I need to celebrate somehow but I guess Stella and I will have to hold off for the weekend.

I can do that.

Maybe.

Oh my god!

I'd like to thank the Academy, my dysfunctional home life, my computer...

Anyway, just got this email. My very first contest winner!

Hi Robin,

Thank you for submitting your essay to Cavern Press. Although we did not receive many entries, I would like to award you the $50.00 prize. Thank you for your courage and honesty. Please let me know what address you would like me to paypal the award. Also, I would like to know if you would be willing to be interviewed. Your identity would be protected of course, but your account is unique. Receiving the award is not contingent on you doing the interview. Again, thank you for submitting to our contest.

Tammy Perron
Cavern Press

Well, since it's now on my publisher's page...

I guess it's okay to post the cover of my novel, due out January, 2005, because it now appears on my publisher's web site along with a synopsis. And yes, I am way, way excited.

But if the picture disappears at some point today because I am in fact not allowed to do this, you'll understand why:

Tour pics...

I got nothing. I mean, as concerns the novel. Instead of working on it yesterday, I went off on a tangent and wrote a short story. I'm truly hopeless. Just like I'm dying to post what my novel actually looks like because it's now being advertised on the publisher's page, but I can't remember how to do it. I know I can't copy their address because it takes away from their broadband or something...I dunno, my son explained it to me once...all I know is I have to somehow download it to a server first and he usually does that for me but he didn't come home last night, so I'm helpless. Anyway, it even says "Coming in 2005" on their site. I still haven't grasped this entirely and refuse to fantasize too much, but I must admit, I'm enjoying myself.

I will, however, post some photos I took from the tour. Paul actually made me official concert photographer (anything to make me happy and you'll find out why later)...but it's true, I am nuts with the camera and it's yet another thing I'd be doing if I didn't have that stupid day job.

Here's a shot of the kids doing Devo:



Here's Jeremy, Jimmy Page look and sound a like...wait, I take that back...he's better than Jimmy!



and CJ on guitar, Dom on sax (Jim Morrison all the way) and Napoleon Murphy Brock, who of course played with Frank Zappa for several years and joined the kids for many of their shows...

Happy Saturday...

So last night my publisher sent me the proof for the cover of my novel. Now it finally seems real. I'm of course dying to post it here but something tells me I'd better not. Anyway, the book will be out January, 2005 and to say I'm psyched is putting it mildly. Luckily I have the holidays and my novel in progress to keep me pre-occupied, plus a few upcoming trips, one of which is to Kings Park, New York next weekend for the Night Train reading. I'll post more about that later in the week because I don't want it to sink to the bottom of the blog.

Anyway, I'll post additional excerpts of The Tour later..I'm working on that simultaneously with a flash called "Ten Things I Say to My Imaginary Lover". Here's a tease:

#1. My, what big hands you have!

(heh...to be continued as soon as I think of 9 more without driving myself too, err, crazy)

Oh finally...

So this morning was hell. First I get addicted to this damn site, then I find out I can't log on with any new posts. Typical. I was jonesing in a bad way. Then, I go on line and find out I owe Cingular $417.00 for my kids' cell phone bills for the month of October. Both went way over their minutes on the family plan. I almost had a fucking stroke and called them at school, hollering like a crazy woman. This is not like me at all, and while I'm angry at both of them, I'm just as angry at myself for losing my cool. Fuck it all, it's only money. Okay, $417.00 is a big deal, but at least everyone is healthy. Well, I'm not healthy, my blood pressure is soaring, but at least I'm alive.

Anyway, back to the novel. I don't even remember what pic I am posting - I copied the link before I went to work and emailed it to myself, so I guess I'll be surprised - oh wait, I do remember, it's my son, Eric (the one with the long hair in the dark glasses like his mom) and Brandon, the other drummer, playing congos on Black Magic Woman. And in regard to said novel, when I went to work on it last night and this morning, I realized one of the reasons I was so bored was that I was telling it in too linear a fashion, which I know I have to do because it's non-fiction, but I wanted to excite myself so I started typing up some of my notes from Paul's pre-concert pep talk to the kids on the third day in. This is all raw stuff, but I figure, what the fuck, I'll insert it in its proper place later, severely edited of course. So here it is, more of the tour...

“Alright! I’m going to throw out some songs. I want you to grade them., A, B, C. Black Magic Woman.”

“I think it’s a B”, says Dan, one of the guitarists, a nice kid. It’s not his song so he’s being diplomatic and taking the middle of the road approach.

“Why a B and not an A, Dan?” Paul prods him.

“I dunno,” he mumbles.

“He’s right,” says Haffie, another great guitar god. “ I just don’t think there’s enough energy.”

“You’re making sense, Haf. Phil,” he says, pointing at a handsome seventeen year old guitarist with long wavy hair. “You’re a rock star on that stage, act the part. C’mon dude, you’ve got the looks. Do a solo with C.J. You’ve got to sell the audience, you’ve got to play to them. Dance, talk it up, sell our merchandise. We have t-shirts, sweatshirts, tour shirts. No wait, girls – you do it. Smile at everyone, give a little wiggle, ask them nicely to buy them during the break, tell them how it supports the school”

“Okay, okay,” everyone kind of mumbles.

“Stevie,” he says to his pretty blonde keyboard player/singer. "Listen, no lesbian thing when you and Madison sing You Really Got Me. This isn't Philadelphia - the people don't dig what you're doing. It’s not cool. Instead of smiling at each other, smile at and engage the audience.”

The kids groan. They're older and are into being bored and blasé. Engaging the masses decidedly does not appeal to them and Paul senses it.

“Listen, have I been wrong yet? Don’t disagree with me, I know what I’m talking about. Look how it is when Joey sings Italian Restaurant. He hams it up and people love it. Remember that dude we saw on Venice Beach playing guitar with his feet? People were lined up watching! You gotta do shit like that!”

More sighs from everyone. And I’m still cringing over the fact that Italian Restaurant is even on the set list.

“Okay, next song. Gimme Shelter - can be A, but not with this group. Madison, you should own that song. You gotta belt it out!”

“Louie!” He shouts to his premier guitarist, also soon to graduate. “You fucked up the solo in Pigs last night. You’re playing on automatic; there’s no enthusiasm.”

“Paul, the sound guy was horrible. The bartender told me it was his first day on the job and he was all stoned.”

“Don’t blame the sound guy. You always blame others for your fuck-ups. And Dan, you need to work the slide better. Other than that, the song was an A. It should be an A. It’s a great fucking tune.”

“Golden Slumbers! Okay, A, the crowd eats it up, especially when Teddie, Gina, and Allie all sing in harmony. Same thing, Paranoid Android. Teddie, Stevie, the Slicks – A plus.”

Oh man, he’s giving my kids a break? With me sitting here? That’s so not Paul.

“Okay, next song. Dogs. Now Slicks, you sucked on that last night. Worst version ever.”

Ha. Now it is.

“Yeah, it figures. Teddie finally gets her guitar solo right but then the Slicks screw up. Julie, Eric, you've got to keep it together. It’s like you never establish any groove.”

“Paul, we tried really hard. That’s the most difficult song we do,” Julie whines.

“What did we do wrong? I thought we did okay,” Eric agrees.

“No, it’s not good enough. Figure it out, but realize it’s better to play the song good than exactly right. No one is telling you to be slavishly tied to the original version. You two are such perfectionists, you’re too literal. You have to liven it up, you’re not tight enough as a unit. I mean, Jesus Christ, Pink Floyd was the tightest unit ever and of course you’ll never do that so cheat, make it yours. Julie, Eric, don’t just stand there looking at each other, just nail it. You guys gotta work on it. Julie, when it comes to the bass break...don't stop when Louie does - hold an open chord.”

“What do you mean?” Julie sputters.

“I don’t know, anything. Play an arbitrary chord,” he says.

The kids all look at each other and I wait to roll my eyes in comradery if only one of them would just look at me.

“Next. Rain Song.”

“A” everyone agrees.

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s an A. Teddie, you nail the vocals – Jeremy, Phil, CJ – you rock on that.”

“21st Century Schizoid Man.”

“Oh, A plus,” Julie says. Sure, her boyfriend plays bass on that.

“You’re right. CJ and Matt rock out on that song.”

“Okay, okay, what else. Can You Hear Me Knocking. I say it’s a B. The guitars need more…something. Guys, do me a favor. Get the CD and listen to it wearing headphones. Get crazy with the rhythm. Cameron, you need to be a little more animated like Ron Wood.”

I stifle a laugh. Animated and Ron Wood used together in the same sentence for some reason cracks me up. And then again, there’s that rumor about him having horrible body odor.

“Next. What is Never Should Be...do Ramble On instead,”

No one disagrees because the same kids play in both.

“LA Woman. Dom, you are Jim Morrison. But people, please...carve out a solo for Grace. Right now it’s a B and it’s usually good but it could be an A. Jam, keep the solo going, and do another jam at the end. Dave – do something other than 4/4 drumbeats. C’mon. You’re an All Star, act like one, otherwise I’m giving the song to Slick or Brandon. And Brandon,” he says to the only black kid on tour. “War Pigs is just B plus – Haffie, that’s your fault and Brandon, you’re behind in the beat and I can't hear the high hat. Remember, once again, good is better than right. Brandon you are the vet here. You have to lead that song!”

Brandon nods. Normally, he’s immune from this stuff. He’s older that the other kids – almost twenty – but he’s Paul’s right hand man, a good natured kid who at least on the surface lets stuff roll off him.

“Now. Four Horsemen. It has to be perfect...there’s no other reason for doing that song other than ‘Look how good we do it’ and let me tell you now, if I’ve just told you your song is good and then you fuck up and don't give it your all and it gets bad again, you're never gonna hear the end of it. I'm gonna haunt you fuckers. Cameron, you had a breakthrough in that song the other night - it's your song, dude, and if you can't hear others you are too loud and you have to turn down your amp. You need other people to quiet down during your solos. You know why it is I always hear solos by the same people? It's because of their attack. Attack!”

The kids are getting restless. They realize Paul is on one of his manic roles and this could go on for hours. They’re hungry and they’re tired but once again, I have to pretend I’m invisible, even though it’s like one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. That’s my kids sitting there suffering.

I dunno...

So I've had an epiphany and now I'm way pissed because I realize I don't want to write the book on the tour as part of National Novel Writing Month and I've already wasted four days and am almost 6,000 words in. I want to write the sequel to my novel instead. This is of course particularly amazing since I didn't even know I was going to write a sequel until the publisher said they'd like to see one and I had not one single idea nor did I particularly want to do it anyway until naturally I committed myself to writing the memoir of the tour. I'm also annoyed I haven't written a short story or a flash in almost a month. This totally sucks. I've been walking around the house for two hours, trying to come up with something, and instead my brain keeps droning on with the facts of the tour. My brain is even talking to me in a flat monotone. Oh my god, I'm so bored with the whole narration. I am so not a non fiction writer.

I have an opening line for a flash and I don't know where the hell to take it.

"Her sister has invited her to lunch, but when she arrives, her sister's cat is on the dining room table eating the shrimp while her six year old son crouches underneath, eating a stick of butter".

See how pathetic I am at the moment? That's the best I can do.

Pissed at the world...

I hate everyone today.

Sorry.

Except him:



If you never heard his music, you should remedy that immediately.

Anyway, it's not a great pic, but it's J.J. Cale. Clapton covered some of songs and made them hits and half of the asshole world thinks they were written by EC but they weren't...After Midnight, Cocaine, I'll Make Love to You (any ole' time at all)...anyway, JJ is amazing and if you're gonna start with one CD, buy JJ Cale 5.

That is all.

I'm going back to burying my head in my NaNo novel which I agree, is pure crap, but I know how to fix it. It's one of the few perks of reading like 100 stories a week as an editor.

I've gotten a grip...

Okay, so I'm feeling better now but of course angry at myself for breaking my #1 and #2 rules.

#1 - Never freak out or get depressed over something that is totally out of my control;
#2 - Never over-estimate the American public. Assume they are all assholes and be pleasantly surprised when proven otherwise. That way, I will always avoid disappointment and will seldom be depressed.

Tonight I plan on getting wasted, blasting some really great music, working on my novel, and talking with a favorite friend. My idea of multi-tasking. (Ugh, spare me that phrase, along with "closure", "my bad", etc.)

So all is cool in my world again. Though I am still planning a major life change...just trying to figure out what.

Clinical depression

"You're just left with yourself all the time, whatever you do anyway. You've got to get down to your own God in your own temple. It's all down to you, mate."

"If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there'd be peace."

"The only hope for us is peace. Violence begets violence. You can have peace as soon as you like if we all pull together. You're all geniuses, and you're all beautiful. You don't need anyone to tell you who you are. You are what you are. Get out there and get peace, think peace, and live peace and breathe peace, and you'll get it as soon as you like." John Lennon.

*************

I still can't face the truth of what's happened.

Everyone and everything is pissing me off today - I can't even be civil to a single person.

I work in a law office where no one even gives a fuck; I'm so overloaded with work that means NOTHING; I don't even want to go home tonight, either. I just want to disappear.

Even my on line writing group, where I go to escape for comfort, is so full of trolls and gleeful Bush supporters I want to quit that site as well...just delete my membership...poof...the nice of thing about cyberworld, you can do that. One click and you no longer exist. I think it might be time for that, anyway...face my demons in the real world and move on.

I just wish I could crawl into someone's arms right now and cry. I've never felt more alone. And I'm the one who keeps insisting she loves being a recluse.

Sorry for the dramatic overwrought post, but it's how I feel and what the hell do I care who reads it.

Everything is really, really fucked.

Not just heartsick, devastated...

I stayed up all night, weeping.

And now I just heard the Republican's gleefully announce that they've won Ohio and that President Bush hasn't made a statement yet because "he's letting Senator Kerry reflect on the election results".

And that Bush killed Kerry in the popular vote (I haven't checked this...it doesn't matter...nothing matters anymore).

I want out of this country. Funny how sometimes decisions are made for you. I can't do it - I can't listen to him for another four years. I can't watch that smug face, that smirking moron, being sworn in.

And the Republicans picked up even more members of the Senate and Congresss. We are so, so screwed.

That being said, I'm really sorry about today's installment of my novel posted below. It sucks even way worse than the two prior chapters. I wrote it last night drunk and in pain. It might be my last public posting. I don't have the heart for anything. But again, a friend told me that if I stop writing, then I really have let the terrorists...Bush and Cheney that is...win.

I can't think rationally let alone write anything worthwhile. I just want to go to bed and assume the fetal position.

I don't know how I'm going to go to work today.

I don't know how I'm going to even go upstairs and get dressed.

I knew this was coming -- I was all over America this summer and saw it first hand; that this country isn't made up of the free thinking liberals with whom I associate on the east coast. But when I came back home and told my friends they told me not to worry, that it would all work out, that they had faith in the American people...that they have intelligence, taste, and will do the right thing.

I see Ashlee Simpson on T.V. and know better. She looks good with her mouth taped, doesn't she? I know if I were a guy fucking her, that would be a pre-requisite.

I'm heartsick.

Now completely and irrationally paralyzed with fear...

Okay, I'm now unable to do anything but drink.

No, that's not me in the pic and I apologize for that photo - I couldn't find a better one and I'm definitely alcohol impaired.

Worse, I made the mistake of reading over my unedited novel excerpt. Yes, I do realize it's all boring exposition. I will fix that.

Go Kerry! (she said weakly)

I'm paralyzed by fear over this election and can't write

So I'll post art.



Anyone want a lesson on Titian? Though a more interesting one would be Caravaggio...I want to post a painting of his as well but the ones I found on line are all too big and I haven't mastered shrinkage (snicker)

How about a taste of Gustave Courbet?

Disclaimer #57

Please do not read today's novel excerpt unless you are a masochist. I am so severely stressed over this election I can't even think coherently let alone write.

Additionally, this is shaping up to be the day from hell. When I got home from work last night, there was a message on my voicemail not to forget my dental appointment at 8:00 a.m. this morning. I mean, it's just a routine cleaning but what the fuck ever possessed me to make an appointment so early? Oh yeah, right, my job...I forgot. And speaking of that, that's my next problem. When the building was evacuated yesterday, I was in the middle of preparing a trial brief. The hearing is at 10:00 a.m. I figured I'd get into the office early and finish it so I didn't have to rush. Ugh. Now it means I'll barely make it in by 9:15 which will give me about a half hour to do an hour's work. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

In what should be better news but I'm too nervous to enjoy it, my daughter and I are voting together at 7:00 a.m. I fear long lines tonight, especially in my neighborhood, because as much as I hate to say this, we're very much divided here because this is an upper income area. The last mayoral race was a big deal because we have an African American mayor and it turned decidedly ugly between whites and blacks and our polling place had a crowd stretched around the block when I tried to vote after work. Anyway, as I keep babbling, I'm nuts over this election, and I'm just hoping my daughter will be good luck. This is the very first time she's voting, having just turned 18 in January. We went over the candidates together - not just President, but senator, Pennsylvania representatives, etc. and it's not possible for either of us to just simply pull the straight Democratic lever unfortunately. We have a Democrat maniac in the PA House who is an old time mobster and thief and we checked out his Republican opponent who thankfully is pro-choice and pro-environment. So we're going to have to hand pull each candidate individually instead of just pulling that big Demo lever like I usually do.

Okay, I'm officially shaking. I can't write another word as concerns my novel, my thought process is completely off kilter, and have I mentioned I hate going to the dentist? Arghhh.....

P.S.

What I want to know is this: Why didn't it happen closer to 5:00 p.m. so I could have just gone home. Now I'm exhausted and sweaty and stuck here for ten more minutes and wondering, after seeing what it's like out there, how the hell I'm going to get a cab home.

Sigh...I guess I'll be walking. So much for working on my novel tonight.

Ha. As if I could do that with the kids having band practice tonight.

Oh well. Maybe I'll wear headphones and use the laptop upstairs. I'm still pathetic with the laptop. I can't get used to not using a mouse, and the keyboard is for people with tiny fingers.

Okay, okay, I'll make notes in longhand in a composition book. That's the way I always used to write, anyway. There's something satisfying about that, too. Well, if you're warped like me there is.

Because I realize, after looking over the first installment of my novel, that I am desperately in need of dialogue. That's the trouble with writing non fiction - you forget about stuff like that.

Evacuate the building!

So this was great. We just had to evacuate our office building because of a bomb threat. We're right across the street from Kerry campaign headquarters.

What was particularly awful about this is usually we just have a fire alarm that goes off. This time we had a loudspeaker.

"An emergency has been declared. Please leave the building at once!" and this kept repeating and repeating.

Ugh, we're on the 14th floor. I freaking flew down those steps. Meanwhile, there is total insanity out on the streets. Honk if you love Bush, Honk if you love Kerry - so of course everyone is honking and then there are fire trucks with loud sirens rushing to my building. It was nuts. Here's what amazes me. An emergency is declared and all the tenants hang directly outside the building like idiots. I mean, if you got a message An emergency has been declared, evacuate, why the fuck would you stand anywhere near that place?

Since there's only three elevators in this cheesy place, even after we were cleared to go back, it took a half hour. I'm still wondering what the emergency was. No one is talking.

Disclaimer part II

On the walk into work just now, I realized what a stupid idea this is. My unedited work is horrible. I made an analogy that this is akin to being 40 years old and naked in Bloomingdales window. Err...no. I'd rather be naked in Bloomingdales window any day, in fact, I'd rather be naked, extending my legs in the air and shooting out ping pong balls.

I'm not sure that I can do this. I'll try...but I might have to abandon the idea of public posting and just return to using the blog as my own emotional Prozac and writing the novel in private.

Plus, I'm not joking about election jitters. I'm terrified, no, horrified, by George W. Bush. I can't stop worrying. It's affecting everything - I even yelled at the dog on his walk today because he sensed my tension and wouldn't play catch. Every morning I toss a tennis ball around with him for exercise at our stupid excuse for a dog park in my yuppie neighborhood. He insisted on bringing his giant dog treat along on the walk, which he always chows down before we go out, and then wouldn't eat it or drop it...he just kept looking at me with it hanging out of his mouth like he expected me to just leave him alone and play with myself.

Hahahaha - I guess he knows more about me than most people.

Disclaimer...

Ack..this just in...I made the mistake of reading over what I wrote and I found like 20 errors and made corrections but it still sucks.

Anyway...

Below are my first NaNo words - I think around 1,700 of them so I'm keeping pace. I had a beginning already mapped out and decided I hated it around 5:00 a.m. today so I completely re-wrote it. I'm not happy with this one, either - it's not my usual style of writing, but I'm stuck now because I have to go to work and the kids have band practice here tonight...arghh...so either don't read it or read it with the knowledge that I'm gonna tear it apart later.

But hey, I did it! Even sick with worry about the election. I've been shaking all morning...I don't know how I'm going to get through the next two days.