NaNoWriMo Starts Friday

My novel emailed me a couple of weeks ago, begging me to work on it. When I logged into my NaNoWriMo account, I noticed it had been two YEARS since I'd been there. That poor neglected novel never was meant to be, an idea abandoned on the side of the road at least a half dozen plots ago.

In case you are unfamiliar, NaNoWriMo = National Novel Writing Month, or something close to that. I am not good with exact quotes: Movies, song lyrics, acronyms ... I botch them all in equal measure. FTW, even. (You don't want to know what I thought FTW meant. You probably do know. And if you think that's what it means, you are wrong.)

I run through plots regularly while I'm showering, blowing my hair dry, attempting to straighten the waves with a flat iron held together with electrical tape. My characters speak -- sometimes their voices are audible. And if I'm writing in my head while getting ready for bed (maybe I should try poetry INSTEAD! See what I did there?!), I often wonder if my family thinks I've lost it. I've heard it's okay to talk to yourself. It's when your self starts answering back that you have to worry. Many times full conversations take place in my bathroom when I am the only human in the room. And crazy does run in my family. But so does drama, so I think I'm safe. For now.

As you may or may not have noticed, I regularly neglect this blog. I have published only a handful of entries this year. I am not entirely confident I will be successful with NaNoWriMo, which begins this Friday, November 1. By 11:59 p.m. November 30, I will need to have 50,000 words written down  in order to successfully complete the program. 

I have most of a plot ready to go. I have four to six characters pretty well thought out. I am struggling to decide whether I should write the whole thing in first person or third, third being easiest for me. I struggle with dialogue. I get bored with writing scenes. I tire of typing. If I could dictate the whole thing, I'd probably be more successful. If I had a WRITTEN outline, I know I'd be more successful. I'm hoping success comes packaged in the official 2gb USB NaNoWriMo armband I've ordered for the month. I will wear it daily as a reminder that I need to churn out some copy. I will pretend it has magical powers, enabling the words to flow so quickly, my fingers will have a hard time keeping pace. (I had to write about magic somewhere, since it won't be in my novel.)

I am committed. Mostly. As committed as I can be without a real goal past the 50,000 words. I'm hoping that the next time you see me here, I won't be hanging my head in shame. That's one reason I wanted to make a public declaration of my intent to finally write a complete novel. Maybe, just maybe, this blog post will prompt me to continue writing. It's all in my brain. I just need to get it down on paper. Don't we all?

Join me if you dare. Wish me luck, if you please. Both are mightily appreciated.

Karen

I like to think that I'll be among the first human beings to live forever. I think I'll drink from the fountain of youth tomorrow, since forty-six seems to be a pretty decent age at which to be frozen in time. I know these are crazy thoughts -- so crazy, in fact, that I don't even waste a wish for everlasting life on Earth when I spy 11:11 on the clock. I know I'm going to die. I just don't know when. And honestly? I don't want to know.

But while I was out enjoying my Summer of Fun Tour, my friend Karen's time on this Earth ran out. I was in Hollywood when I got the first phone call. She was bed-ridden, I was told. No one knew why. I didn't call her then because I was told her husband didn't want her disturbed. She would get better, I thought. I would get home and call her once she was better. I would listen to some outlandish tale she'd have to tell.

I should've called immediately.

The next call came while I was in Phoenix. She was dead.

I am typing these words and seeing them in print for the first time, and I still can't believe it. She never said a word to me. I never knew she was sick, even though I'm told that she was diagnosed eight months ago with an aggressive form of cancer.

She was the most cheerful person you could ever meet. Perky, even. And I feel like a heel for not knowing, not saying goodbye.

There are no do-overs in death. He comes in and takes what's his, ready or not.

She was too young to die. Or maybe she was just to good for this world.

I am selfish to think of all the time I won't be able to spend with her now that she's gone.

No more crazy discussions of her government paranoia, of vapor trails in the blue sky.

No more laughing at her when she pees herself in the port-o-let and has to hang a shirt around her waist until the evidence evaporates in the hot Texas sun.

No more getting irritated at her for falling asleep on our long, late-night drives back to the city after long days spent scouring for goods in cow pastures.

No more Christmas wreath making on my back patio, where if I searched hard enough, I know I'd find mica embedded in the cement from our last crafty get-together.

No more soup and sandwiches after auction previews on Tuesday mornings.

How do you mourn someone's death when you didn't even know she was dying? When you can't find an obituary? When her voice is still on her voicemail? When you don't know the family well enough to ask questions?

Karen was a bright spot in my life, as I'm sure she was in the lives of so many others. And I don't want to let her go. I don't want to take down the magnet with her photo that sticks to my freezer door, even though the calendar below it ran out of days long before her death.

I don't want to forget her. But I want to learn: To stay in touch. To never put off that phone call.

And I am selfish -- maybe even proudly selfish -- thinking only of my hurting heart. And of this glorious light that is now and will be forever dark.

"An angel got her wings, and we'll hold our heads up knowing that she's fine. We'd all be lucky to have a love like that in a lifetime. Friends stay side-by-side, in life and death you always stole my heart. You always meant so much to me that it's hard to believe this."

The Summer of Fun Tour Continues

It's a long way from Texas to Kansas.

It seems even longer when you're trapped on a turnpike!

Miranda Lambert's shop in Tishomingo, Oklahoma

Somehow, my GPS must've known that, and after a quick visit (Okay. Maybe "quick" is overreaching.) to Miranda Lambert's store in Oklahoma, Ms. GPS sent us all the way to Lawrence, Kansas, on back roads. We were actually on highways, but they were MUCH more interesting than driving up I-35. It was slow-go, stopping to take pictures here and there and dodging turtles on the road. I've never seen so many turtles in my life. I saw more turtles than armadillos this trip.

Here are a few shots of a carnival we happened upon somewhere in small town, Oklahoma. I think I should've been a carny. Maybe running away with the circus is still an option? I've always been attracted to the imagery from both lifestyles -- from vintage freakshow photos to the smell of cotton candy to the belting barkers on the midway. Yet here I am. Typing on a keyboard, uninked and firmly rooted to a home that isn't on wheels and a family. Hope you enjoy the scenery.

Please click on the photos to see them in a larger format! 

It was a very overcast day. The carnival was still being set up. I was the lone shooter watching it all take place.

Surfin USA

I'm happy to report that Kristi's Summer of Fun Tour is in full swing! I just returned from a few glorious days in San Diego, where I served not only as a parking good luck charm, but as a weather goddess, bringing the sun from Texas, as well! No May grey or June gloom allowed!

{View of downtown San Diego from Coronado Island}

I saw some amazing beaches, full of amazing things like...SEA LIONS! RAWR!!

{They really don't roar. And they really aren't dead. 

Can you imagine this life? Swim. Sun. Sleep.}

Surfers! RAWR!

{They don't roar either. That was me roaring.}

Colorful landscapes unbeaten by heat and uneaten by deer!

{That is a lemon tree! I stayed with a friend whose backyard 

contained a lemon tree, an orange tree, a fig tree and an avocado tree. 

Unbelievable! California has everything!}

I came home with a wee bit of color and a swollen bottom lip, which I guess reacted in a very California way to three days of fairly constant sun exposure. It looked collagen-injected, for a fraction of the price! {I'm full of so many money-saving tips, you just wouldn't believe.}

I love California! I love the $5 bottles of water, the $4.11 gasoline, the $1.9 million dollar starter homes! I love that I can visit all that, good weather, and fun friends, then return home to my reality of affordable housing, 99-cent water and the love of a family. Summertime may be a beast here, but it's all mine. And it's a great base for my Summer of Fun Tour!

Note: This layout is WHACK. If you click the photos you can see them in all their glory, without strange things overlapping them.

Send Ransom!

Rock stars have kidnapped the writer of this blog!

She wishes.

Instead, her summer of fun has kicked off and she has so many new tales to tell! Sadly, however, very few involve rock stars at this time. BUT... once REAL summer arrives...oh, those stories will most certainly involve music, the open road, art and family fun.

So for now, you can visit her here (but don't worry, as it really isn't a hostage situation), if you're missing her THAT much. She's started a moonlighting gig that just happens to kick blogging arse. And it might involve rock stars.

{Guess where she's headed soon?}

This post is dedicated to a fellow fangirl who has a special love for third-person writing. And if the writer of this blog were the betting type, she'd guess this fangirl also favors the Queen's English.

Being Irish

March, 1986


It was our first road trip together.  Spring break, freshman year of college. We drove my car from Fort Worth, Texas, to Detroit, Michigan. Straight through. I borrowed sweaters from my roommate. Good thing, since it was cold in the Midwest that March. Snow, even. Ice on the Detroit river.

I had never been so far away from home. I was so nervous to meet his family that we drove around Trenton for a while before heading to his house. I fell asleep (we'd been up for more than 24 hours) playing poker with him and his younger sister, who was nice enough to let me share her room for the week.

On St. Patrick's Day, we celebrated with his older sister and her boyfriend at a Knights of Columbus Hall. All they had to drink there was green beer. No water. Only green beer. He won a huge bottle of wine, shaped like a naked woman kneeling with her arms raised above her head. At some point during our second semester at college, he and some buddies drank the wine and survived to tell about it. We still have the bottle somewhere. It has made every single move with us. For a while we used it as a piggy bank.

He told me he loved me that spring break, right in his parents' TV room. His mom served us huge portions of food, including corned beef and cabbage. They laughed at my southern accent, especially when I ordered iced tea at a restaurant.

They were the first family I remember being so in touch with their roots. My dad's family is Scotch-Irish, but we never really thought much about it. Certainly never celebrated it.

And then he'd make me a mix tape with a little leprechaun on it. He'd write me poetry.

We'd marry and dance to the Pogues (Irish) at our wedding. We'd eventually have kids and name them Cameron Knox (Scottish, from both sides of the family) and Liam (Irish, and a third generation of Williams). We would introduce those kids to Irish music, maybe a folktale or two.

We would, on certain Saint Patrick's Days, dance in our own living room, to Irish music playing on the stereo. We would even rise from a lunch of guacamole (green) and green grapes when led by an Irish fiddle. And life would be good.

LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!

Haters gonna hate.

Once you embrace this new-age philosophy (hip-hop? It sounds hip-hop to me. But then again I thought Blondie invented rap, so don't quote me on that), life gets that much easier.

Then the Oscars happen. 
We love them.
We hate them.
We love to hate them.

I happen to love them. Granted, it's fun to pretend we're all fashion critics for one night, dishing as though we're on assignment from Star. That's not the hate I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the fun suckers.

You know the type.

They say things like, "I don't understand why everyone is *so* interested in celebrities. Their poo smells just the same as ours." (Really, fun sucker? Prove it. I like to believe it's covered in glitter and odorless.) And this: "Sewage. Raw sewage."

These fun suckers go out of their way to corral all the haters on social media just to dis a program they *claim* they would never watch. And really. Who could blame them? It's such torture to watch beautiful people parade around in drop-dead gorgeous dresses and whatever the male counterpart might be to the dress. (The correct answer is NOT messy leather tie, Quentin T).

Back in the days when my kids were younger, my husband would take them away (but never long enough. They had bath times and regular bedtimes, and I'm sure I'd barter something in exchange for NOT being the one in charge of bath on Oscar Sunday) and leave me alone with all my celebrity friends. (What's that line from Almost Famous? "They're just more ... interesting.")

Eventually I progressed into what I like to call "The Luby's years." I'd go out super early to fetch my dinner from Luby's. If you must know, it would most likely be a LuAnn with fried fish and tarter, fried okra and either mashed taters or fruit salad. Regular roll. And sometimes it would be chopped steak with natural gravy instead of the fried fish. But it was always Luby's. I'd book the television for late afternoon forward on Oscar Sunday. And I'd watch the ceremony mostly alone. With occasional interruptions by the penis people (my family).

Now we're into the party years. One boy's away at college. One is well into high school. My husband and I dress up, nosh a bit and sit in front of the big screen at a local movie theatre on Oscar Sunday. (I feel much better about clapping in the movie theatre when someone I love wins an award than I do alone in my living room.)

I feel sorry for the haters on Oscar night because it's really fun. And even though my date isn't keen on the Oscars, we're somehow able to have some bonding over the hours-long spectacle. Our conversation this year flowed something like this:

Me: Do you think they oil Halle Berry's skin to get it to glow like that?
Him: That's a job I'd like to have.
Me: Ummm... me too?!

Then later during a commercial break:

Me: OMG! Jennifer Aniston uses the same skin care line that I use.
Him: You should use lots of it then.

"And all to soon the end is gonna come without a warning. And you have to just go home."

Then Oscar Monday arrives. The haters have forgotten all about the Oscars. They find a new cause to latch onto (because that's how they roll), most likely the horsemeat in Ikea's Swedish Meatballs. And once again, I'm all "Leave Britney alone!" because if it's true that horsemeat is in Ikea's meatballs, I only have one thing to say: horsemeat is tasty and it's better for you than the glass shards in your Lean Cuisine.

Hate away, fun sucker...