Who's Your Daddy (Mommy)?

It's a pretty sad state of affairs when I felt such an overwhelming sense of pride last night at the grocery store because I kept within the budget to the PENNY.

Of course, this is not taking into account The Wretched Grocery Disaster of April 2007, from which forth we will only refer to as "The Incident."

Let's take a walk back in time....

Two weeks ago, my DH hands me the debit card and says, "PLEASE keep it around $210." Sure, I think. I had taken the time earlier in the day to write down all of the things we need (hey, I've been doing the grocery shopping for 8 years, I know everything we need by now). I even divided into separate columns like: Perishables, Meats, Dairy, Non-Perishables, Boxed Stuff, Toiletries, yada yada yada. (Can anyone say OCD?)

There's a place here in Orygon called The Grocery Outlet. They have some pretty amazing deals. I thought: "I'm going to go there first with my little pocket calculator and get the non-perishables and toilietries at a screamin' price, THEN I'll go to the grocery store and get the rest." In my heavily medicated state, I'm thinking: "I'll get ALL this stuff and come home $25-50 UNDER budget and DH will be so happy and proud."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Keep in mind, I tried this tactic once before: we'll refer to it as The Wretched Grocery Disaster of 2004. But, hey, I think, I can do this. I'm smart. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So, I've got my little bags of goodies (on which I've saved bundles) but when I get to the car, I realize that I've locked my effing keys inside.

Splendid.

So, I call DH, who's outside and not answering the phone. Tried the in-laws, but their line was busy. So, I find a coat hanger and try to jimmy the lock but with my luck, I can just see myself shattering the window. I give up. Finally DH calls, none too pleased and shows up (again, none too pleased) to unlock the car.

And still, I have to go to the regular grocery store. It is 9pm already. So, I go on my merry way, still (trying) not to let the night's disaster get to me (good luck with that, Jen). I get my goodies at the normal grocery store only to discover I've gone TWENTY dollars OVER budget.

Let's just say DH was even less than pleased when I arrived home and I somehow ended up with less food.

So, yesterday, I went to ONE grocery store, whipped out my industrial sized ten-key and punched in everything as I went. I got oodles and oodles of food and kept it within the budget to the PENNY. Did I mention to the PENNY? The cashier told me I was amazing.

I felt amazing as I loaded groceries into the car and headed home, slapping the dashboard and singing along ala Tom Cruise in Jerry McGuire.

I haven't had a lot to feel proud about lately and like I said earlier, this is kinda sad. But, hey I'll take it where I can get it.

One small step of JenKind, one giant leap for Society as a Whole.

Who's Your Daddy (Mommy)?

It's a pretty sad state of affairs when I felt such an overwhelming sense of pride last night at the grocery store because I kept within the budget to the PENNY.

Of course, this is not taking into account The Wretched Grocery Disaster of April 2007, from which forth we will only refer to as "The Incident."

Let's take a walk back in time....

Two weeks ago, my DH hands me the debit card and says, "PLEASE keep it around $210." Sure, I think. I had taken the time earlier in the day to write down all of the things we need (hey, I've been doing the grocery shopping for 8 years, I know everything we need by now). I even divided into separate columns like: Perishables, Meats, Dairy, Non-Perishables, Boxed Stuff, Toiletries, yada yada yada. (Can anyone say OCD?)

There's a place here in Orygon called The Grocery Outlet. They have some pretty amazing deals. I thought: "I'm going to go there first with my little pocket calculator and get the non-perishables and toilietries at a screamin' price, THEN I'll go to the grocery store and get the rest." In my heavily medicated state, I'm thinking: "I'll get ALL this stuff and come home $25-50 UNDER budget and DH will be so happy and proud."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Keep in mind, I tried this tactic once before: we'll refer to it as The Wretched Grocery Disaster of 2004. But, hey, I think, I can do this. I'm smart. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So, I've got my little bags of goodies (on which I've saved bundles) but when I get to the car, I realize that I've locked my effing keys inside.

Splendid.

So, I call DH, who's outside and not answering the phone. Tried the in-laws, but their line was busy. So, I find a coat hanger and try to jimmy the lock but with my luck, I can just see myself shattering the window. I give up. Finally DH calls, none too pleased and shows up (again, none too pleased) to unlock the car.

And still, I have to go to the regular grocery store. It is 9pm already. So, I go on my merry way, still (trying) not to let the night's disaster get to me (good luck with that, Jen). I get my goodies at the normal grocery store only to discover I've gone TWENTY dollars OVER budget.

Let's just say DH was even less than pleased when I arrived home and I somehow ended up with less food.

So, yesterday, I went to ONE grocery store, whipped out my industrial sized ten-key and punched in everything as I went. I got oodles and oodles of food and kept it within the budget to the PENNY. Did I mention to the PENNY? The cashier told me I was amazing.

I felt amazing as I loaded groceries into the car and headed home, slapping the dashboard and singing along ala Tom Cruise in Jerry McGuire.

I haven't had a lot to feel proud about lately and like I said earlier, this is kinda sad. But, hey I'll take it where I can get it.

One small step of JenKind, one giant leap for Society as a Whole.

Diagnosis: Crazier than a Shit-House Rat

So, for four or five months, I was on this amazing high (natural, of course! Hey, this isn't the 90's, you know). Then I crashed and spiraled into the worst depression of my life. And I've had some doozies, depression-wise.

Go to the doc, say "Hey, bud, let's up the mgs on my anti-depressants, I'm effing miserable here." Then he starts asking about my "moods."

"Moods?" I scoff. "Oh, you mean the relentless highs and lows that are my daily life?"

"Hmm," he mutters noncommitally. "Do you have any family history of [enter random psychosis here]?"

I laugh uproariously. "Are you kidding? I was raised crazy!" I look down at the floor thoughtfully and then glance back up at the good doc. "Well, my brother was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 when he was a kid. I looked it up some years ago, but I don't go out and buy random houses and cars, so I didn't think it was an acurate fit."

The good doc laughs. "There are several levels of Bipolar Disorder. I'm wondering, with your mood swings, if you might have Bipolar 2....."

The long of the short of it is that I made an appointment with a psychological network (which is quite frighteningly like its own little city) where I now see a psychologist weekly and a psychitrist bi-monthly. Oh, and not only do I definitely have Bipolar 2 (the milder version), I also have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. And I thought I was the normal one in my family. HA HA!

I'm on a crapload of drugs that make me ridiculously tired, regardless of when I take them (at night). I have to drink 2-3 Rockstars a day which helps some. Depression has lessened, but I still am having high days and low days and days when I think the white coats should just take me away.

I don't think my DH knows what to do with me. He, of course, was not raised crazy. Although (HELLO!) he's lived with me for 10 years, so he has to have some idea.

The OCD makes some sense (those of you who are familiar with my psychotic episodes regarding ants will agree, I'm sure).

Guess I just have to be open and wait and see what the Universe has in store for me.

Good times.

At least, for now, today is a GOOD day.

The day is still young, however. :)

Soundtracks to my Novels

I love music.When I was a teenager, I would jack up my "ghetto-blaster" until my bedroom walls shook (a fact that drove my mother crazy, no doubt). I would gather my friends and hit the small venues like La Luna or bigger ones like The Salem Armory to watch my favorite punk and ska bands play.I don't go to concerts anymore, but I still love music. In fact, I love to write to music. Have you heard that Kenny Chesney song, "I Go Back"? If not, the basic premise is that every time he hears a particular song, it sends him back into a memory.There are certain songs that I feel connected to. I'm one of those types who looks for deeper meaning in any song (though I have to admit, there is little or no meaning in rap or pop music IMHO). I love country music because each song tells a story and it evokes emotions that I can relate to.There are also certain songs that I feel are connected to the stories I write. WHEN I become a published author, I'm thinking of posting a "soundtrack" tab on my website, listing the songs that inspired me during my journey of creating these paper people.But, since I'm not published, nor do I have a website, I'll give it to you instead:

First and unfinished novel:

Killing Me Softly by The Fugees
Hazard by Richard Marx
Again by Janet Jackson
Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks
Cowboy, Take Me Away by the Dixie Chicks
Wicked Game by Chris Issac

Second Novel:

Hips Don't Lie by Shakira
I Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith
How to Save a Life by The Frey
Top of the World by the Dixie Chicks
It's Time (album) Michael Buble

Third Novel:

Afterglow (album) by Sarah McLaughlin
Wreck of the Day (album) by Anna Nalick
Foiled (album) by Blue October

Fourth Novel:

Stand Still, Look Pretty (album) by The Wreckers
The Hits (album) by Garth Brooks
Honky Tonk Badonkadonk by Trace Adkins
When You Kiss Me Like This by Toby Keith
Jagged Little Pill (album) by Alanis Morissette
Under the Pink (album) by Tori Amos

Ideas and the Scattered Brain

"Brutus! Give me back the baby's diaper! That's disgusting!" I said sternly to my 7 year-old Boxer.

Brutus, as usual, ignored my command and pranced off into the living room, carrying the soiled, soggy diaper like a prized toy.

"Brutus! Damn it, dog, if you don't give me back that diaper, I'm selling you to the glue factory! I mean it this time."

"Honey," my husband, Wally, said, from his elected position on the couch (front and center of the hi-def TV), "they don't take dogs at the glue factory. It's horses." He ripped his eyes away from drag racing long enough to glance at me. "Besides, I don't think they do that anymore."

"Whatever," I muttered, my mind going off onto one of its "tangents," while I simultaneously chased the 60 lb. fawn colored dog (who was definitely going to glue factory--no question) around the house.

As I stalked the dog, I imagined a puppy mill where the owners, looking to create the next "it" breed of dog, accidentally mix monkey DNA with a Boxer puppy and end up with a "Moxer" or a "Bonkey." They'll call him "X," short for X29752 and he'll possess the ability bark and chase birds while swinging from limb to limb (scratching its butt, of course). Hmmm, is there a story there?

"To the victor go the spoils!" I shouted, snagging the diaper from Brutus' jowls. After disposing of said disgusting diaper, I looked at Wally, who (big surprise) was still parked on the couch.

"Are you ready? We've got to drop the kids off at my mom's in twenty minutes."

Wally held out a hand, "Just five more minutes, honey. I want to see (insert name of random drag racer here) finish this round."

I rolled my eyes. The Just Five More Minutes Honey clause is one I'm familiar with. After all, I created it in my house.

TEN minutes later...."

"Why don't you calm down?" Wally asked, loading our son into his car seat. "You're so high-strung all the time."

Oh, I'll give you high-strung.

"The reason I'm so tense, is because we're supposed to be at Mom's in fifteen minutes and it's a thirty minute drive."

Wally smirked as he slid in the driver's seat. "Did you take your crazy pills today?"

I socked him lightly in the arm. "Not funny the first time you said it. Not funny the gajillion other times."

Backing out of the driveway, he grinned. "Hey, now when I ask you if you're on drugs, you can say yes and mean it." He laughed at his ingenuity.

Folding my arms across my chest, I leaned back into the seat and thought of a GREAT idea for a story. A woman with a newly diagnosed mood disorder murders her husband and buries his remains on the 10 acre property she shares with him (this may come back to bite me in the butt should I ever decide to "method act" out this idea).

As we drove along the highway, I gazed out along the gently rolling hills and large expanses of farmland. Tuning out NASCAR on AM 1360, I imagined a farm that had been in a certain family for decades that was being threatened by torrential rains and a sudden invasion of ants.

As I looked at the car driving alongside us, I wondered, "Where are they going? What are they doing?" In my mind, they were a couple on an awkward blind date. The woman has just gotten out of a nasty marriage, and after a year of solitude, has decided to dip her foot in the dating pool again. The man has trust issues of his own and only went on the date because his older sister guilted him into it. Little do they know, this first date was going to take them into a whirlwind love affair filled with tension, inner conflict, great sex, emotional black moments for each of them, and finally, a Happily Ever After.

"Honey? We're here."

I looked out at my parents' familiar blue ranch and blinked. Wow, that'd gone quick, I thought.

My mind, of course, was still back on that lonely stretch of highway, with the couple I'd named Harry and Grace.

My Saving Grace

I received some upsetting news yesterday. My brother is being sent to prison. This is no ordinary trip to county for a few months. No, this is full-on, "Hi, my name’s Bubba," don’t-drop-the-soap State Prison. The hows and whys are immaterial at this point. Let’s just say it’s been a long time coming. In fact, I’m surprised that at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-five, he hasn’t been sent down river sooner. Trust me on this.The news in and of itself was devastating, but not at all surprising. After all, we had been awaiting this day since last July, when he was caught evading the police in a stolen car during rush hour traffic. But, when my mom told me over the phone yesterday, it hit me hard nonetheless.This is my baby brother.This is the little baby my mother held in her arms in the hospital, while I peered over the bed and asked if I could "pet" him. This is the child I fiercely protected against the slaps and punches of those who were sworn to protect us. This is the child who I cared for like my own when there were none to care for us.Where was I? And how did this happen?Yes, I was a child, too. But, it rips at me in a way that is so intrinsically primal that I want to rip my hair out and scream at the heavens and demand WHY!After the storm of tears had waned, I was overcome with the crippling urge to write. Needed to write. Had to write. Where in the damn hell is my laptop?Afterward, I felt better. Which brought to mind the countless other times in my life, particularly those black, bleak moments of my childhood when my only ally was a pen and a piece of paper, a book that I could escape into, if only for a few precious moments.Writing is my saving grace, I realized. It has been the one true thing that has stuck with me through thick and thin. It got me through the tears, the pain, the loneliness, the drug habits, the depression, the wonder and terrifying brilliance of becoming a mother. It’s what’s kept me sane. It’s what’s kept me strong. A strong beam of light in an endless sea of chaos that is life. My life.

So, I realize that this is probably a little dark, a little deep. But, I’m feeling a little dark and a little deep lately.

Sacred Space: Where I Write

So, we're building a house.And the thought occurs that I am going to have a brand new writing space. I'm not what you might call a "versatile" girl when it comes to where I write. Unfortunately. When I write in spaces other than my home desk/office, I have a hard time getting the words to flow. I have a laptop and even when I take it to my dining room table, it's difficult to "get in the zone."I'm sure it's purely psychological, but there it is.In all of my years of performing the written arts, I've had a special space for writing. When I first began, at the tender age of eleven, I sat in my bedroom at an old wooden desk and wrote painstakingly by hand. With the advent of computers, it moved into the spare bedroom. Through adulthood and many apartments, I have always designated one area as my "sacred writing space."We've been in this house for less than two years. I don't have an "office." I have desk in the middle of the playroom (obviously, my priorities have changed in recent years). But, it's my space. I have some crystals set out on my desk: aventurine for creativity, clear quartz for mental clarity (I have yet to achieve this feat). In my diffuser, I have various essential oils burning for various purposes. My bulletin board sits to my right, pegged with misc. info relating to my current WIP. The children scream behind me. The dog comes up and starts his manic episode (dancing in circles, barking loudly, nudging my hand. He wants to pee).When the kids (DH included, of course!) start bugging me for things like food, water, etc., I bare my imaginary fangs and hiss (I've discovered a yen for becoming a vampire since reading JR Ward's vampire series--thanks, Eli and Lisa!).This doesn't work. My DD laughs and my toddler has no earthly clue what a "vampire" is.But, I digress.So, come summer, I will be in a new space. This one will actually have four walls all for me! The mind boggles. In my head, I've already been painting the walls. I think I will like this imaginary space when it comes into being.

Category or Single Title

I got my first rejection Saturday.It was a bummer, to be sure. I gave myself over to a brief "mourning" period, had a good cry and then really looked at the letter. I submitted to Harlequin, thinking that I was writing a category romance. Unfortunately, my story doesn't fit into the parameters of this line. Some part of me knew this all along. As I scrolled through the submission guidelines for each line, I thought, "You know, none of my stories fit into any of these lines." But, hey, I gave it the 'ol college try anyway.I've discovered that my writing is a lot like my personality: I just can't seem to fit a round peg into a square hole. I was reading the last issue in RWR and I was struck by the author's statement, "When a door shuts, find a window" (I'm paraphrasing here).So, I'm finding my window.Because I can tell you right now that my second WIP is definitely not going to "fit" into any of the category parameters either. My window, such as it is, is single title. I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, fear pummeling my heart, self-doubt whispering "I don't know, Jen, are you sure you can do this?" For some strange reason, I'm terrified to make my book longer. I know I need to just bite the bullet. Get back on the proverbial horse and get my butt in gear. Beside, I can't know unless I try, right?I think I made the mistake of thinking that category books were easier to write. This, I have discovered, was a gross miscalculation on my part, not to mention a big load of crapola. I think categories are, in fact, harder to write. But, why can't I let go?

Writing and Reading Romances in the Age of Relationships

So, this post isn’t exactly related to the craft, but it does have to do with how reading and writing romance affects our relationships, an issue that I have always wondered about.Like many of you, romance has been a part of my heart and soul for as long as I can remember. All of the stories I created, whether in my head or on paper, had some romantic element to them. It was the uumph, the glue, the substance of my story. Sure, I could write a mystery or a horror tale, but why not throw together a couple who yearns for each other to make things interesting.When I first started reading romances, I was a newlywed. I can still remember going to the bookstore, glancing around to make sure no was looking and then sneaking into the romance aisle like a wraith. I blushed like a school girl when I saw the bodice-ripping covers and half-naked men gracing some of the covers.Eventually, I got over my self-consciousness (obviously). Now, I stand proudly in the romance aisle, giving whomever dares challenge me the big ol’ hairy eyeball. Usually it’s all in my head, but it makes me feel tough anyway.What I noticed, when I began reading and writing romances, was that I started comparing the heroes in the stories to my own husband. My hubby is my center; he’s my rock. But, his idea of a romantic evening includes watching NASCAR. Sitting in my big armchair, my heart went pitter-pat as the hero professed his undying love to the heroine, all the while reciting a laundry list of all of the cute, wonderful things he loved about her. Then, I would turn to look at my husband, lying sprawled out on the couch, barely conscious, dirty from the garage, scratching himself. .lThere were so many times I almost brained him with the book. Or lamp. Whatever.It got to the point that when we argued, I would think, "Well, John Q. Hero wouldn’t say that to me!" Which is asinine and ridiculous, I know, but, hey, I was twenty. Cut me some slack.In my naivety, I considered ceasing the genre altogether. Of course, I couldn’t do that anymore than I could stop breathing. I mean, come on. Really?In the end, I came to this glaringly obvious realization: romance novels are, largely, written by women. Women who, largely, want their men to understand them in a profound way, to talk to them on a deep level, and last but certainly not least, knock their proverbial socks off in bed.I’m long since past the newlywed phase and I have come to an understanding and acceptance with my husband. When I write now, I can appreciate the differences and similarities between my heroes and my sweet hubby.

To Outline or Not to Outline. Is That the Question?

I'm new to the "biz."Well, I'm new to the business side of writing, that is, the support groups, critiquing partners, publishers, query letters, ahem, finishing my novel. I've been crafting love stories in my brain since I could figure out how to get Barbie to catch Ken's attention. But, in all of those years, in all of seemingly endless hours I've spent pouring my words into story form, I can honestly say that I've never completed anything.Each one of my stories ended mid-way. I'm gangbusters on beginnings. I love to start projects. I'm a habitual list maker. The more grandious and complex the list, the happier I get. Of course, nine times out of ten, I don't get past number two, but hey, I had fun creating the list.When I first joined RWA, a scant eleven months ago, I began hearing different writers talk about the use of outlines. I'd come to realize that there are two schools of thought on the subject: the "fly by the seaters" who just sit down and go and the "planners" who map everything from eye color to the minutie of plot.Oh, how I wanted to be one of those '"fly by the seaters." In fact, I had been one for my entire writing career, such as it was. I have a manuscript (my first official novel) that is still unfinished. It's approximately 650 pages long and I've still got a quarter left to write. This is what happens when I try to be spontaneous.When I started the second official novel, mind you, I had actually decided to take the plunge, so to speak, and try the novelty of an outline on for size (oh, how I love my clichés). My outline was thirty-five pages of narrative, but it went from start to (gasp) finish. And, while my story line changed slightly, I found I was able to move from Point A to Point B and eventually to Point C.Now, I am a big advocate of The Outline.Of course, this doesn't work for everyone. Some say that it takes away from the creative process, which I can respect. Thankfully, this isn't the case for me. It works like a roadmap, a veritable guide, that helps me actually complete what I set out to do.When I started the third official novel, I decided that I wanted a more concise outline, a bare bones roadmap. I recently purchased "Your First Novel" by Ann Rittenberg and Laura Whitcomb. In Chapter Two, there is a section devoted to creating an outline. I'm sure that this isn't an original idea, but it seemed damned clever to me.The gist of it is that you have all of these ideas worked out in your head, whether they're just bits and pieces or a full-blown scene. Taking a stack of index cards, you write down each scene or idea in your story. Then, take the cards and place them in chronological order. There you have your barebones. If something seems amiss, you can switch it around or figure out another scene to tie it together.I have to admit, I hemmed and hawed for the better part of a month on this outline. Finally, I sat my butt down and performed the exercise. To my astonishment, I pumped out the entire outline to my third official novel in less than thirty minutes. It flows better than the second and everything makes damned good sense.