The Seven Page Novel

Latest Session, the first since November. Sad, says this lonely and rather preturbed blog. Very, very sad indeed.

Stop pestering, Blog. I know. I haven’t kept up with my part in the blogosphere. Or my writing in general. Laundry. Haven’t kept up with laundry either, but you don't see the dryer complaining. Actually, that's not true. It whined when I turned it on the other day and an odd smell spouted from its innards. I think it was trying to tell me something.

Well today, I have mustered some time, energy and inspiration to write...Beginning with my blog, inspired by my children...

On our way home from recent parent teacher interviews, report cards in hand, it seemed the Kid-Goobers were in need of practice in the subject of writing--spelling, grammar, editing, spacing, punctuation, indenting, you name it. Not an easy task, to assign "parent" homework on top of what the teacher already sends on a regular basis, so we conjured the idea of buying each of them a notebook to write over the weeks to follow, topic and format of their choice whether it be a diary entry, fiction story, or a retelling.

My daughter decided on a novel.

Our son has yet to pick up a pen. But the notebook is cool, the pen matches and it's a clicky one, so the important stuff is covered. Now, weeks since, he has been “forced” to write a story in practice for PATs and reluctantly formed a few pages that in turn melted my heart.

I won’t say that I am envisioning them as talented, famous, creative writers of the future, but in the last few weeks they’ve been dipping quills of their own into that proverbial ink and stories from the mouths of babes are flowing. I remember writing stories in school, assignments based on each kids’ version of a famous authors book or poem. They were fun, I am sure our mother’s were proud, and I have shared those moments as well from the other side. But this seemed to come from another place entirely, an idea that just seemed to flow from a need to come out. Much like my own inspirations, I saw that light in my daughter’s eyes, the frustration with moments of writer’s block in my son's. Even before the pencil touched paper.

They have begun and I can only imagine what the future holds. My writer's soul within has it's fingers crossed, that much is inevitable, but for now I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs with my face in the wind and share with the world how perfectly awesome they are. (Titanic not available, so I have resorted to this verbal gush of motherly pride.)

Of course, I asked for permission to publish the words of each author.

From the girlie, the rights to the first few lines were granted.

The little man, however…well, he is our strong willed boy who walks the line of his life as if it had been created the moment he was born; drawn by him, governed by him, and he simply said, “no” with a look that said, “not on your frickin' life, Mom.” I can’t deny a bit of pride in his strength of character alone. (Even though that same strength has tested this mother from his wee age of at least 18 months.)

Nonetheless, I am soaring.

I will leave you with a short excerpt entirely in her words from the “novel” (which includes prologue, character drawings and notes, and the first four chapters. Page count? Seven. That’s right. Seven. I can’t help but find this both endearing and amusing.)

The Crystal Of Shadow Island

Prologue

Eyes in the Dark

Firecry lay awake, unable to sleep. Two hours already had passed, but he felt as if someone was watching him. He looked at the entrance of the White Tail Forest and saw a huge, blazing pair of yellow eyes.

1

[picture of paw print here]

Scar

"I need to find that fool!" Scar yelled. “Koda! Bring me my rock. NOW!”

Koda, the River Otter, scurried across the rocky den. As he ran, he looked around. He saw old, wet vines hanging above him and moss and lichen growing on rocks and boulders.

I can only say that upon reading these first few lines, I was pulled into her world. And I can’t wait to read more. I hope to be granted permission from my son in future. For now, I will wait with baited breath, hoping in the least for better grades from the Goobers.

Addendum

Latest Session...and Addendum to the previous post where I stated:

...crap that is the fault of the system and the "ass" at the head of our Health Board (much thanks Mr. Duckett. Going to trash your house when I find out where you live)...

Well, good news everyone! Dr. (a title I use lightly and with heavy sarcasm) Stephen Duckett has been fired! I hate to celebrate another human being's bad fortune, but in this case, under the assumption the man is even human in the first place--I tend to think likely not--I will rejoice anyhow.

I won't go into detail (I can't go into detail without sending myself into a tirade, spending hours of energy and raising my blood pressure to dangerous levels) but we'll just say our health care system is better off. Our patients have a fighting chance, we nurses and hospital staff may just be seen as human and respected for our jobs.

And maybe, just maybe, the money that would have gone toward his bonus as it previously did, could build and staff a new wing in the hospital this year.

(Oooo. Careful. Tirade narrowly avoided.)

Let it be noted, I did not put off my public for the sake of a cookie. Like some other arrogant asses I know.

The World Keeps On Turning...And Fast

Latest Session

So it's been a while. I've neglected my blog, my writing, even my reading, and am feeling out of touch so-to-speak with all of my worlds. I can't keep up. So here is a speed-of-light self-reflection with the hopes of finding stable ground by the end.

Deep breath.

And begin.

Report cards, interviews, Ben crying over a "really bad day and I can't do patterns in math". Teacher says he is doing great!! Great. I think. Still crying. Bullying not gone but at least not physical and school is actually, get this, working on our side! Imagine that. K8 has a B...a B...in math, up two grades. Hooray!!

Work...crashing patients, disgruntled patients and families over crap that is the fault of the system and the "ass" at the head of our Health Board (much thanks Mr. Duckett. Going to trash your house when I find out where you live) chaos, pulling out hair and wondering, why in the hell did I choose this career? Right. Helping people and all that crap. Need to focus on writing, moving my fantasy 'career life' to reality.

Ugh.

Christmas. CHRISTMAS! Shopping, decorating, baking, music. Oh, I love it all, I really do. But this year began with the annual argument.....

Me: can we please hang lights on the house this year?
Hubby: Bah humbug. (He actually says this.)
Me: come on! The kids want them sooooo bad.
K8: Doesn't matter to me.
Ben: Whatever.
Me: Are you freakin' kidding me???

This year, however, I won!! Candy cane lights ready to line garage, reindeer for my lawn, so many plans....then it snowed, minus 40 with the windchill and once again, decorating is crapped on until a break in weather comes. (Might hunt down the damn weather man.)

Girl Guides. Volunteering is a great thing, don't get me wrong. But I already have a job and enough "life in general" that the hours put into Guiding has come to be an enormous pain in the ass.

Reminder to Self: Commitment made. Stick it out. Then K8 says one day, "Mom, I don't know if I want to keep going to Guides."

Don't get me started.

Kung Fu (where I don't volunteer) has turned out to be a nice one hour break where I have to do NOTHING! Except watch little Benny doing his kick ass moves on the big guys. Kayso, slight over exaggeration. He's only in week 6.

The Puppy!! LOVE her. So fun. So cute So pretty....peed on carpet, high energy spin cycle at two designated hours of the day, and my kitchen chair corners are forever chewed and slobbered on. Still, that Bella front toothed "smile"greeting you in the morning is pretty awesome.

And finally, my writing. I did manage to dedicate some time to fixing up my website and giving my book its very own page and blog. This, to me, is very exciting. So everyone else, get excited and pass it around so I can sell some more books already!!!!

So that only scratches the surface, but the deeper stuff will remain inward until un-designated time of self-explosion and nervous &/or mental breakdown occurs.

Until then, further plans for promoting self: At a standstill. As I said, my world is spinning too fast and I can't fit anything else into it. Fame and fortune, I will see you soon!! Just maybe not reeeaaal soon.

I wonder if Oprah, Ellen or Rachael Ray would like a copy of my book to peruse without any intention whatsoever of said author looking for a plug. (I am sure no one else has thought of it.)

A quote from K8:

"I think the people at the hospital wouldn't make you work all the time if they knew how much your family missed you."

Puppy Love

Latest Session

Today I really need therapy. Again, my head seems to be out of the writing mode and on to something else when it comes to the blogging zone.

Tonight, we have made our choice of puppy at the breeders. Yes, this is an exciting time. We thought hard, looked at all of the pictures, have been anticipating this day with so much joy I could burst. We love her already and can't even bring her home for another three weeks.

But when I brought her picture up online moments ago, this time knowing for the first time she would be ours, I cried.

I miss my Rosie.

We lost our first pup six months ago, not exactly a pup at nearly thirteen years old but a fighter til the end. That was her spirit. Always.

She couldn't go for a run if she wasn't givin' 'er through a field, scooting like a small rabbit with back feet carrying her, though she was 70 lbs of American Bully.

She wouldn't chase a stick into the water unless it was at least half her size. If it was too heavy, she'd just drag it back to shore and along the ground, waiting for us to heave it up and toss it back. I laugh at your small twigs. Don't even pretend to amuse me.

She tore through a barbed wire fence once before we could stop her, tearing a wound on her side but kept trucking as if she didn't feel it, only to finally crash after a long hike the second she made it through the back gate. Much like the hole pierced in her ear from another dog in the first month we had her. We didn't know about that one until we brought her home hours later.

She took a dive off a cliff at Writing on Stone Park. Because the deer jumped. I was chasing the deer. Seriously, what did you expect? That I let it one up me? We thought we'd lost her that time until she came sauntering down the path to the campsite a couple of hours later.

Age 12, less than a year before she died, she ran around the farm as if she was ten years younger, tongue hanging out the side her mouth, happiest she could have been to be keeping up with the younger dogs--until she crashed. Literally. And didn't get up for an hour.

Even at the end, she looked at me from the floor, fighting to even lift herself to go outside to pee because she refused to give in. She went on a week, still pushing through for the cuddles and attention and as long as we were with her, she didn't seem to notice. Until the last day. And I knew she was done.

One of the hardest things to do was to let her go, and until now, I haven't felt guilty for moving forward, finding another bully.

And I've been crying like a baby.

Our new little pup will never replace her, I know that. But crap, does the reality of life ever hit home at the worst of times. Just when I'm supposed to be excited to welcome home another. But we will and it will be okay. And I know we didn't make this decision just to replace her.

I miss the clacking of her nails around the lino. I miss her bear sized nudges for attention. I miss that she would stop eating if it meant a cuddle instead. I miss her half growl-half wine when she wanted our attention. And yes, I even miss the first pair of shoe she chewed. And the many that followed. And the remote controls, couch cusions, two foot length of lino and floorboards.

The house is too quiet. The bedroom floor is empty at night. And there is no one at the door to greet us when we're home.

I need to replace those things.

I miss you Rose. And I know you will love Bella as much as us.

Don't You Hate it When...

...you are in the midst of a THOUSAND projects and another one creeps into the mix?

Me: Thanks, project, but I really have enough on the go and--
Oh, just a few minutes of your time.
A few minutes always turns into more, project, you know that.
Yes, well, it's a BIG one.
Even better. *dripping with sarcasm*
BIG as in, IMPORTANT
Of course.

Yes, that's right. I'm not busy enough with back to school, Guides kicking off the year, middle of a fiction novel, half finished painting wall murals--oh, just click here at a previous post for a list of my crazy ideas--and another story pops itself into my head.

No hints on this one, but I am sooooo excited.

Okay, so I can't not tell...

This one is a children's book, something I haven't done in a while, based on my last post about elephants and thunderstorms. And the best part? I get to work with my very talented artist brother! Yay!

Funny, isn't it, that in the midst of chaos, here I sit flipping through the laptop documents--novel manuscript, children's book and my blog--while paint dries in the kids rooms and I have to get up for work early in the morning.

Oh well.

The kitchen looks like crap.

A quote from K8:

"Mama, when are we publishing our book?"

Elephant Farts

Latest Session...

Yes. I said it. Elephant Farts. Sounds crazy, I know, and it all began with the weather.

You see, in this wonderful province of Alberta, Canada, we have been hit this summer with particularly frequent and damaging, pain-in-the-ass weather systems that haphazardly shift about in the atmosphere above our house.

Okay, so not only our house and the country much less the world has had it's share of crap. But I live here. And it's been quite the year as far as weather goes.

I have a personal vengence on the weather. It ate my garden. Twice. But that's another story, one involving salad cuttings splattering the entire two floors on the West side of our house and much less of it in the neat little garden rows which were reduced to sprigs and sticks and unrecognizable mulch.

Thank you Miracle Grow for bringing it back to life...twice.

No, this weather issue involves my daughter Kait. (Otherwise known as K8...you'll know her from most previous posts). You see, she has developed a fear of tornados, which--thank you ever so much stupid weather--has expanded to include a fear of thunder, lightening, wind, dark clouds and even the first splattering of gentle summer rain or if the sun just happens to move out of sight momentarily.

The wind as much whispers and we see a flash of our daughter, now 11, zoom through the house to the television, the channels flicking past to the weather network and Kait, eyes glued to the set, as she waits for the red "panic strip" to show itself across the bottom of the screen with warnings and watches and what to do if's.

The hail storms we've been through haven't helped; the deafening crash on the windows combined with what seemed a small funnel cloud running through the yard solidified any hope we had at "surviving". Nor has the Network's special report about Tornados that run on an loop every hour.

We move then to tears, panic, hiding under the blankets and crying out, "Mama, is it going to rain? Will there be thunder? You know how I get soooo scared." More tears. "And what about those other things....you know what I mean and I won't say the word or else I'll start freaking out!"

I've tried different tactics. We've reasoned that it's nothing, storms are natural. We've talked about the necessity of rain for the moisture. We even discussed a "Just in Case" Plan, my thinking being that if we are prepared, there'll be less to worry about. Didn't work. We try talking about it, explaining the rarity of tornados, the minimal danger behind thunderstorms short of standing in the field with a metal rod. I've tried joking, telling her that if she asks for a coat hanger to stand in the middle of the field, I'll most likely say "no".

Everything leads to settling her down until the next go round a day or two later when the sky threatens rain once more.

Today, it began after the sky darkened ever so slightly and the weather man--after Kait blurred across the living room--announced "Chance of trace rain this evening for the city."

New tactic. (This is where the elephants come in.)

We've all heard it before...

When it thunders, God is sneezing.

When it thunders, the Gods are arguing.

At our house, when it thunders, the elephants are bowling. (I'm not even sure how the elephants got up there in the first place. Only that they are loud, obnoxious and can throw a mean gutter ball.) We use humor a lot in our house. Usually, it works. This time it took a little more creativity than that.

Of course, the questions began...

"What about the lightening? What's the lightening then?"--Elephant toes in the light sockets. The elephants are not smart and do not follow the rules about staying away from danger. Unlike you, Kait, who would not stand in a field with a coathanger. Because that would be dangerous.

"Why is the thunder sometimes even louder?"--Those are the strikes. Think of Fred Flintstone with a "Steeeeee-rike!" (Pretty sure the raised eyebrows were indication she is beyond the years of the Flintstones.)

"And when they keep coming over and over and faster and faster?"--Another strike, then cheering. The other elephants are excited. Then, the hippos join in and things get way out of control. They're even worse than the elephants.

"So what about the clouds?"--Elephant farts. Very large, very unpredictable and they come in all different shapes, sizes and colors.

"Like pink ones." This from Ben, her little brother, totally getting how hilarious and brilliantly funny his mother is.--At different times of day, the farts change color. Elephant farts are pink at sunset and orange at sunrise and when they're really big huge ones...that's when the wind comes.

So now you know.

Just don't go around plugging your nose when the wind comes up. You might offend the elephants.

A quote from our sarcastic K8, after wondering how those weather people know so far ahead what's coming. My answer: technology is better, they broadcast on TV, we have TV now and...we don't live in caves anymore.:

"So if you live in a house with no TV and no windows and no doors, I know how you can tell...go outside."

Like, duh.

Jersey Shore . . . Canadian Style

Latest Session, taken in parts from a long-time annoyance and recent conversation with my BFF Kristy. All of her infinate wisdom has not yet landed her on Blogspot, so I will bring her along for this one as co-author and fellow woman in need of getting something off her chest.

I have yet to relate this topic to my writing, but there is something I need to divulge...something that has wrenched itself into my mind and I cannot help but write a post to save me and all of woman-kind out there who may suffer from a similar blinding sight.

Let me take you on a journey into the wilderness of a big city and introduce you to the species of man we like to call, Jersey Shore Canadian Style. Let's watch shall we, as he gets out of his vehicle at the local grocery store...

A young man in his early twenties (sometimes older and under the assumption that we didn't notice he aged in the last 10 to 20 years) has just stepped into the parking lot. What is he wearing you ask? Let's take a closer look ladies...

Low riding track pants with a special glimpse of the love-handles, and flip flops (which are a must in summer or on those warmer winter days for that beer store run when shoes don't matter and only cooooool counts). His hat is turned backward, or on a feelin' spunky sort of day, turned ever so slightly to the left. And that's right, ladies. That is a "wife-beater" shirt he is wearing. You know the one...arms cut off to show those not-so-ripped muscles and celtic knot armband tattoo that the rest of us got over a year or so after they were "the thing". And if our specimen is feeling spunky (lucky for us, today he is!) he'll be wearing a pair of white sunglasses, even on cloudy days. These will soon be turned to sit on the back of the neck, under the swiftly styled "messy look" hair, for a dose of extra-cool later at the checkout.

Note: This look is meant to appear thrown together, but we all know it took 1.468 hours in front of the mirror to get that hat just right.

This species of (and I use the term loosely) man is typically found driving one of two vehicles. A black Dodge truck, raised with extra large kick-ass, look-at-me-coming wheels (penis extention) or a Jeep. The Jeep, with the same sort of wheels, top down in all kinds of weather, is the perfect choice for the less beefy sort of man who chooses a more "way cool surfer appeal".

Either vehicle must meet two criteria in decor.

1. That annoying decal of Calvin in sunglasses taking a wiz on a [insert the name of any other brand of truck but his] logo.

2. A bumper sticker that reads: I Love Blowjobs.

Do you? Do you really? Thanks for sharing.

Still in our eyesight, he walzes into the store and yes, ladies, we do a double-take in his direction because we just aren't sure if yet another one has managed to fit his ego through the sliding door--but look. Yes. Yes he has. Astounding isn't it?

If the above description fits anyone who may be reading this blog, I apologize. But please keep reading, even if only to learn that women are not checking you out, hotstuff, when looking twice as you walk past. We are laughing inside at how shit hot you think you are. That smirk you shine at my second glance only makes me laugh harder, out loud now, because I know you are thinking, "Oh, yeeeaaaahhhh. I am so f***in' awesome."

No.

No you are not.

It all would be tolerable but they really do think they are "All that and a bag of chips". Maybe it's just my age (I will admit to being in my thirties, nothing more, and yes, styles have changed since my day in the 80s. Good lord, we thought we were cool then, too, in our lace gloves with the fingers cut out and lifesaver colored leg warmers.) But I am certain some woman in her "thirties" would have written about us losers, too, if there was such a thing as blogging.

There wasn't.

How fortunate for me.

Another sure sign it is in fact the JSCS is the female counter-part almost always at his side. Ain't she pretty? Let's take a closer look...

Boob job (not so much a problem except that do we really need to show off the girls with push up bras three sizes too small? We all have them. Boobs, I mean. All sizes, all shapes, all lovely, so there is no need to push 'em up in all our faces.) Yes, we are looking and that's why you're advertising, so keep the hissy fit to yourself when men (and women) stare a little too long at the pumpkins.

We can't discount those low cut t-shirts either (size XXS no matter what really fits) with bold letters across the front reading, I Love Blowjobs.

Match made in heaven? I think so.

She also wears a matching pair of white sunglasses (though hers are three sizes bigger), jewelled nails, jeans that either ride too low, snug too tight and always drag a good three inches on the ground (or used to but all of that walking on the backs with her flip-flops or extra tall thick soles clear f*** me pumps has torn the frayed edges right off). Or she may be wearing a spare pair of her boyfriend's track pants rolled to just below her knee. This, of course, is a sure sign she is thinking, "look at me! I slept over at my wicked-awesome boyfriend's house and got pumped!"

Insert sexy tramp stamp [here]

I hate to judge. I am sure these two are nice people. And I know we all have our faux pas and we've all had our moments. But it would help if the two of them didn't eye everyone else with that I-am-like-so-much-cooler-than-you attitude.


Yep. You probably are. Way cooler.

But then, I don't spend 120 dollars on a pair of Lulu pants, the rest of my paycheck going to hair gel.

Glad to get that off my chest. And not to worry if you shop at Lulu or have the white sunglasses or even wear flip flops in winter. It's putting it all together with the attitude that seals the deal. We all like big trucks. We've all had that "shit-hot moment" in a sassy pair of designer jeans. I hold no illusions of how awesome I am not in my Mommy capri pants and Converse runners that I should have put in the back of the closet after grade nine.

Well, JSCS's...Thanks for the laugh.

Disclaimers:

I do not trash you, Lulu Lemon. Nothing personal. My husband thinks your brand of clothing is phenominal and would stand in front of any number of your stores and "people watch" if it didn't mean he'd look like a freak show stalker. As he says, Lulu makes women's asses look hot. Best clothing designed. Ever.

Dodge and Jeep. I have a personal weakness for both. Black ones in particular. But let's face it. You thrive on those JSCS men in need of a flashy penis extension. I applaud you for your ability to schmooze them, pump their egos and put them on the road. Somebody has to.

Calvin & Hobbes, I love you. You are still adorning my bulletin board and the bottom of emails everywhere. I will not hold it against you for peeing on that Ford symbol, just the JSCS boys who still think it's funny.

Converse Runners, I will wear you until I am eighty-three. I Promise.

 

A quote from K8:
"I totally love Jeeps. I'd get a pink one."

Bitten

No, not by a Vampire...though they are all the rage these days...

I think everyone has a multitude of emotions (we already knew that) that define our being, or different parts of being, I suppose you could say (we likely knew that, too), the part of me in focus on this blog being my writer's side.

Well, that side of me has of late lost it's smile, emotion, drive, and creativity. It is frowning.

Months I have waited to find an inspiration for a new idea, a new book, and have watched as my entire persona has changed at the lack thereof. I am grumpier. I feel like that little chunk of 'something' is just missing and my frustration grows, festers and I start taking on a multitude of other projects. Here are my recent ones:

*I planted a vegetable & herb garden, cherry shrubs, flowers, cedars trees
*I created this blog ;)
*I pulled out the old recipe books and started 'experimenting' again--mostly with good results
*I organized the toys and shelves in kids rooms after a trip to IKEA
*I painted the kids rooms--now deep purple and royal blue
*I started murals in the kids rooms--tree covering one wall, life size R2D2 coming to life--I can't do things small-scale
*Puppy shopping for everything doggie, 6 months before it was even conceived. (yes, due date in August, but that puppy kennel NEEDED a home)
*I became a Gleek...addicted completely to Glee the Show, the Music--I did not appreciate the PVR until those Glee kids started belting out their rendition of Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing'

All of that aside, I have tried everything writing-focused to get out of this, but alas, NOTHING has worked.

Until now!!

I've been bitten again by that proverbial bug, started clacking away at the keys of the computer. And so another adventure begins.

Wish me well, and my greatest of apologies to this poor blog that will suffer indefinitely while my creative side is otherwise occupied. It has been a while already, my new book sits at 63K words and counting, and so instead of clacking the hours away here, it is onward to the recesses of my imagination.

This particular therapy session is closed. And I have found my writer's smile.

My Very Own, Soon-to-be Karate Kid

So this one isn't about writing, but a session--biggest therapy one to date--a soapbox and I am, after all, writing it.

So it counts.

Though this subject is not a fond one for me. Rather, it makes my stomach knot and my angry-mother-yielding-weapons side rear itself. Not that I want any of those other parents holding the "weapons" bit against me, but my teeth are flaring.

My son, age 8, was slapped by another kid in the playground last week. I know, boys will be boys, lighten up, etcetera etcetera. I would, except that it isn't the first time. No, he's also been kicked, knocked down, pushed off his bus seat, yelled at, sworn at, teased and chased around the playground. These are things he has reluctantly told me about and I hate to thing of what else lingers in the recess's of his innocent mind.

Innocent mind. Yes, I know. It sounds as if I'm putting him on a pedestal and he is always on the good side of good vs evil, "evil" being the little bastard on the bus and in the playground, but we've been down that road many times, fight your own battles, takes two to tangle, so here's some perspective:

Stomach pains, nausea, constant missed school days, led to ultrasounds which led to blood work which led to 2 hours of needles for lactose tolerance tests and a few sit downs in the doctors office, all in the name of, "what in the hell is causing my kid so much physical upset?"

And do you know what the answer was?

Stress.

That's right. Stress. 7 years old when it started, and he is so stressed he's having adult sized symptoms. He's missed school, I've been called to pick up my "green looking child" numerous times, and finally, I start to get a few admissions from his mouth stating E---- (bleeped to save the little bugger's identity) has made him afraid of recess, afraid of taking the bus.

My son has friends, a wide variety of them. He doesn't sit alone in a corner and all the bullies pick on just him. He doesn't wear glasses that get tossed on the ground and they don't call him four-eyes. And he isn't chased home by the town bully throwing spit balls. He's an average kid, getting picked on by a kid smaller than he is because my son has been taught right from wrong, morals and has mastered the best stone face, expressionless stare down because he is smart enough to know the kid only wants the attention that my son won't give him. That, by the way, is what got him slapped in the first place last week.

I would think the teachers, principal, supervisors etc. would get the picture clear enough...

Hint one that something is out of place: "Mom," says my son, frustrated tone, piss spittin' mad, "E--- is so bad in class he is ruining the rest of the classes chance at our education." He's eight, remember?

Hint two: Whilst on a field trip as a parent volunteer, the teacher says, "E--- is in your group. Sorry in advance, and let me know if he acts out; he likely will." And guess who spent the rest of the day with the teacher, alone?

Multitude of Incidents + Same Kid = Problem. Eureka!

How in the hell it comes to this in a school that preaches Zero Tolerance on Bullying I'll never know. They even ran a program beginning of the year including exercises, skits for the kids and an assembly with the head of our school's Bully Program  herself, Miss I-Don't-Actually-Give-A-Crap-Even-Though-I'm-Putting-On-A-Great-Freaking-Song-and-Dance, who apparently heads this Theatrical display meant to look like they're protecting our children. We even signed a parents student contract. I wonder if they remember what that looked like?

I cringe at the thought of what has been done to help on the end of the school:

1. Bully yelled at by teacher

2. All grade two classes lose computer privileges for a week

3. Bully and my son sit in the office while bully in question cries, lies and is sent out without punishment and mine is left feeling rejected with a, "his word against yours. Too bad."

4. Bully is moved from one classroom to another so that what began on the bus has filtered to rest of the school day.

5. A thousand (at least) "E---, stop that. Now you're in big trouble" 's

6....Nope. No number 6. That's about it.

Sad thing is, 8 year old bullies are not bullies because they are evil, devil children born from Medusa mating with the Red Horned Demon himself. They act for attention, good or bad, lacking something in another place, at home, or dealing with extraneous circumstances that we can't likely begin to understand. Does it excuse them? No. But it certainly doesn't excuse the schools who don't act at all.

When my son asks "what should I do?", having exhausted all reasonable attempts (walk away, tell them to leave you alone, tell the supervisor, let me talk to them with my diplomatic mommy face on, let me talk to them next with threatening phone calls) I have only one thing left to say...

Punch him back. Hard.

He starts Karate in September.

A quote from K8, during a very intense mommy pissed off moment:

"So, mama, if you worked at the school, what would you do to fix it?"

Me: "To the office. Three chances and you're out. Done. You wouldn't be welcome at our school when you pick on other kids."

K8: "Yeah. That would be awesome if you just go and yell at them."

Procrastination and Dr. Suess

Latest Session

I was perusing my quotes again today. (Instead of writing.)

And rearranging and fixing the fonts. (Instead of writing.)

Because since getting a new-to-me computer, the fonts are far more updated, text boxes actually work and this process of "organizing" quotes, obviously, is completely necessary. (Instead of writing.) Or I risk laying awake in bed tonight while the morning hours creep in thinking to myself, "Is W. Somerset Maugham more of a green font sort of fella or maroon?" Or, "Is Veranda exciting enough to highlight a fine piece of Jane Austen's wisdom?"

Really.

I am so not joking about this.

I think I might need an actual psychiatrist, an actual therapy couch and an actual session on it.

Nonetheless, instead of writing, I decided to post a few of my favorites, though the fanciful fonts are not supported here, so I have had to make do.

Though think of me when I am not sleeping later tonight.

T

 _____________

“Hold on," Lula said, pulling a red flowered scarf from her coat pocket, tying the scarf on Harp's foot like a flag. "Don't want to get a ticket. I hear police are real picky about having things sticking out of your trunk."

–Janet Evanovich, "Three to Get Deadly"

The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't. ~Douglas Adams

from William Safire's "Great Rules of Writing":
Do not put statements in the negative form.

And don't start sentences with a conjunction.

If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.

Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.

Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.

De-accession euphemisms.

If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.

Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.

Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague. 

“You said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” ~Emily Bronte (Heathcliff on Catherine’s death) "Wuthering Heights"

"We have read your manuscript with boundless delight. If we were to publish your paper, it would be impossible for us to publish any work of lower standard. And as it is unthinkable that in the next thousand years we shall see its equal, we are, to our regret, compelled to return your divine composition, and to beg you a thousand times to overlook our short sight and timidity."—a rejection from a Chinese economic journal

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened. Dr. Seuss

Why Romance You Ask?

Therapy Session Two. This one also free.

I feel a need to revisit this issue again as I tend to find myself faced with the look so often. You know the one, writing community. The one that says, "Really, you're a writer, how exciting!!!" Then, "Oh? Oh [tone has fallen, nose is scrunching up] You write Romance? That's....great. Right? Wh...why did you choose romance, anyway? [all casual-like, added giggle for effect]."

My husband even gave me the look and still on occassion sighs with a grin until I nudge him into reality that his wife WRITES ROMANCE! AND THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT! 

Needless to say, here is a post I am revisiting, taken from my now 'Archived Blog'. Enjoy!

I have ventured beyond my own expectations, begun many journeys I never thought I could through my writing. It began when I plunked myself down in front of an old hand me down computer and started to write a few notes for a short story idea I had. I didn’t know where it would go, how many pages, who the characters really were beyond demographics and one single scene that had been running through my mind. It turned into a novel sized book. The romance writing began somewhere else, somewhere a couple of years later.

My cousin read my second completed mystery novel; my second novel period-—very raw and with an inexperinced voice-—and wondered why I didn’t try writing more romance. The mystery was good, she’d said, but the very small romance line in the story came much stronger, much more easily. I think I had found my niche without even knowing it, and wouldn’t realize this until over a year later when I actually tried to do it.

I thought she was insane. I laughed at the comment. Romance? Me? Really? I’d not written, much less read, many romances in the last ten years at that point. Who does, really?...Old women, lonely single mothers, our mothers and grandmothers...come on, we’ve all scene the old Harlequin’s sitting on the bookshelf and dared to open them up at age ten, laugh, turn red and wonder to ourselves, ‘why would someone read that crap?’

There is a world out there I never knew existed, I’ll tell you that. And my mind is forever changed.

So I picked a few up. Some were smut, some written purely to see a sex scene in print, I’m sure--porno for women, my hubby calls it--and I could barely get through them. I have to say I was embarrassed for women everywhere.

Other writers, other stories, have come miles beyond the days of near-rape style sex scenes so elicit they overpowered the guts of the story. Some of them-—I can’t honestly say all because there is a load of crap in every genre of writing whether fiction or non, romance or not—are good. Great even.

The writing has much improved, the storylines set in greater depth, sex on levels from barely mentionable to erotica. Take your pick. Fortunately for me, or so I think, I’ve always been a romantic at heart so I fit into the genre pretty well. (Just count me out of the erotica, or the religious for that matter, thank you very much).

But I didn’t stop there. I wrote two novels (‘throbbing manhoods’ and ‘heaving breasts’ gladly witheld) that were, for lack of a better expression, "romancy" and may dare to fit into the Harlequin section of the bookstore, though those have vastly expanded, too. I have written Chic-lit from a first person and witty perspective, and lingered a while on a darker side as influenced by my love for the Bronte's and classic gothic romance. I even set my head in the early 19th century for another.

When I look back to my first few books, I laugh. I laugh at the writing. But I love them. Ten novels and many short stories later, they still hold some of my favorite moments and characters. If nothing else, the feeling of finally getting down on paper some of my first thoughts and ideas, watching them develop, taking count of my growth as a writer in the meantime, drives me. I haven’t been at it long enough to call myself a "Jane Austen" or "Emily Bronte", perhaps never will, but I know I can make my way to a higher place eventually. And we get nowhere without dreaming.

All of my books say something about who I am as a person, a mother, a wife. A nurse, a writer, a woman. That’s where it counts. I love romance, am no longer afraid of it or the cliché’s and negative thoughts it brings in the eyes of many.

As Jane Austen once said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery." Mine is dwelling with Jane’s.

"Far away in the sunshine are my highest inspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see the beauty, believe in them and try to follow where they may lead."

~Lousia May Alcott~

A quote from K8:

"So, did you write alllll the words in that book? Like on all those pages?"

A Whole New Me

So I've switched blog sites, this, my first entry or what I think of as a free therapy session.

And I can sit on my own sofa.

Why switch?

First: Layout. This one looks pretty. I'm all about pretty.

Second: Blogspot seems to be "the thing". And "the thing" means more access, more hits, and we, as inherently attention seeking humans, want as many people as possible to *tag* us, *friend* us, *poke* us or *follow* us, whichever the case may be.

As a writer, multiply that by a thousand because writers, even the otherwise introverted loner types, want to be noticed in the on-line world. Let's face it, in any world. When I write, I am screaming, pay attention to me, I have so much to say and the words just fall out all over the place. In person I am often saying, hey...so..., and wishing I was back at home within the walls of my comfortable, domain of solitude where only my computer knows my bold side. Well, not only. But close.

But here's the real reason for the switch: I was bored. Are you kidding? I can't stick to one thing for long before I find myself rummaging through websites in search of another excuse to write. So here I am...

Thanks Blogspot...

Until I get bored and start searching again which is inevitable. But by then, this writer will be on bookshelves all over the world, travelling for book tours and fighting off the publishers...

(This is the boldness I speak of.)

I will attach a link on my website to the old blog because tossing my thoughts to the recycle bin of internet-space is like sacrilidge. Every word is a treasure chest full of gold that only I can open or still care about. My first novel manuscript is proof of that; we'll just call it a "practice run" but it sits, 11 years, 2 complete 300 page re-types--from paper copy due to Dinosaur Computer's malfunction--later in the recesses of files.

So welcome. Keep posted. More to come...

T

A quote from K8 (after seeing my one page spread in the small community flyer advertising my book):

"Mama, like you said before, only one person needs to read it and buy a book, then it'll be a million."