Why?  Because of that lovely thing called a menstrual cycle.  During which time we're little more than savages with knife-skills and a habit of throwing heavy cookware at unsuspecting men.  (Just ask the people from Always, who thought putting 'have a happy period' on their pads was a smart idea.)

So, it makes sense that those of us who suffer the times when one of our organs is trying to kickbox its way out of bodies via the belly button (or the ovary), we become edgy and vicious.  So, we take it out on imaginary people.  Or only dream of doing the violence that would calm our emotions long enough to act human.

Me, I take it out on my characters. 

No messy clean up afterwards.

I've gotten some work done on the book.  Not as much as I'd wanted, but I haven't been healthy these last few days either.  I've taken to laying in bed, or on the couch, with tea and books and yarn close by, but not a pen or a piece of paper in sight.  Why?  Because when you're sick, all you want is to feel better.  So you hide in books, in other people's heads, and make them make you feel better.  Or you make yourself something pretty for when you're better.  I'm working on a shawl done in Red Hearts 'Sunshine Print' yarn.  I think it'll be great for fall, so colorful and pretty when the leaves are changing and the weather finally turns colder.  (Hopefully the weather will turn colder)

Anne Bishop is wonderful.  She really is.  I'm living inside her worlds while I'm unwell, and I have to say, I'll play with her characters any day of the week.

The book is coming well.  I maybe not hit 2,000 words a day, but I always do SOMETHING on it.  Which I think is more important than a word count.  Word counts make you work, they require that you put something down, and usually, it ends up being shit.  So you have to go back, erase, and start over again.  Which sucks.

I picked up Stephen King's 'On Writing', and while it's good and amusing, there are some parts that I see that I can't do.  Such as writing with the door closed.  His advice is to get the whole thing down, and then show it to people.  Keep it a secret, like masturbation, only showing it to people after you've cleaned it up and you want to impress them. 

I cannot do that.  One, I would prefer if I caught something early enough that it won't cost me a month of edits for one thing.  Two, it's an ego boost to have your friends, who you know would tell you to shut up and shelve it if the book was bad, tell you that it's good.  That they like reading it.  They want more of it.  They also point out parts that really serve no purpose, so you can take those out of the book and you know where you stand.  If that had happened during edits, you'd have to write more to make up the lost space. 

Other than working on the book, things are boring here.  Going along as planned, but boring nonetheless.

I totally blame Cliodhna for my writers block and subsequent freak out due to said block.  I've since come out of the black hole and returned to the scheduled program.  Which really isn't scheduled, it whenever the muse wants to play with me. 

... more twists in the book.  I love the voices in my head.  They're nice to me.

Cliodhna has more friends than I do on MySpace.  Which is great because that means people like her!  Yes, most the people who have her added are authors or avid readers, but it's so cool!


My nerd scale just went off the charts.

I highly doubt I'll ever make a dime writing.  But I enjoy it.

So while I write, I work in customer service.  You know, Hell on Earth?  Yeah, that job.

Today was one of those days where I wanted nothing more than a fresh bottle of Grey Goose, and a buzzsaw, and the addresses of everyone who pissed me off. 

I now know why they invented Happy Hour.

Too bad I'm broke.

However, I did get a message from Mario Acevedo (author of The Nymphos of Rocky Flats) so I was thrilled over that.

Gods I'm such a nerd.

The book is going well.  I'm still kind of shocked that its working with me as well as it is.  Usually, by the time I hit this part of the story, I have to hold them down and make them tell me what they're doing.  The fact that they're right there, waiting for me whenever I sit down to write, is still kind of scary.  I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Werewolf books are a dime a dozen it seems; everyone is writing them.  What you need is a new approach to them.  A new way to twist an old legend to make it fresh.  I like to think I've done that.  I like to believe that I'm good at it.  I don't sit there and tell everyone I'm great at it, nor do I tell them they're an idiot for thinking so.  I'm not that self-absorbed.  I know that my dog could write a book, but it takes a gift to make it a story that someone can get lost in.   And that is what every writer wants, is something that, as soon as a person reads the first sentence, they can't put it down.

I don't know if I'll ever make that goal, but I'll do my best to get there.

Still flaming along, hopefully this is a constant thing.  She's going good, and people like it...

Now if the paranoia would settle down, I'll be straight.

The writing is coming out now.  Thank the gods.  Now, this is usually how it goes, it's going along like a house on fire and then WHAM-O! the fire department shows up.  No fire department this time!  Let me burn!

I finally nutted up and submitted somewhere.  Yes me, the one who is terrified of any rejection, submitted something of my own to a website for publication.  I sent something to Common Ties and now I'm waiting.  They don't send out rejections according to the site, so I'll either get a contract or nothing. 

I've got a side project that I'm working on right now, Luna is taking a back burner because she was leading me down too many wormholes that lead to nowhere.  I'm not poking at it, just letting it simmer and see what comes up. 

However, I did get introduced to a new author who I fell in love with.  J.R. Ward and she is wonderful.  I love books that mesh violence, sex, and the 'oh my god!' feeling into each and every page.  And she does so with wonderful, aching clarity.  Then again, I'm biased.  I'm a sucker for a hot vampire who has a thing for weapons. 

Instead of doing my usual 'hit the wall and delete the whole thing', I've set it aside.  Put it on the back burner... because I hit the wall, and now I'm stuck using a teaspoon to get through it.

So I've started yet ANOTHER project.

One of these days I'll get it finished.

whiskey kisses in the moonless night
as we danced across frozen waters
of a wishing well not yet gone dry

Sensation narrowed down to rough wool and calluses
chilled lips meeting with warm breath

i no longer look forward to spring
when i can have the winter with you.

Shadows stretch like years, each of them bearing
Memory
Of thing done and seen where
Part of you stayed.

Nightmares
Inner-shot with one potent dream that always stayed
Just out of reach.

Innocense was left on the field where men died
And faith was broken when you realized just how foolish a creature
Man
Really is.

Salvation came in sleep, sometimes
But you were never safe from the reality that took every
Thing

That dream still comes between sleep and wake
Close enough to smell the Savior.

"Sit quietly"

"Be seen, not heard"

"Defer to a man, they know what is best for us"

I dressed up, slicked up
But got nothing more than empty stares and hollow affection

So I switched with the good girl that everyone said I needed to be

I took the leather
Bent the whip
Picked up the razor

Pained lust was the currency I used, licks and kisses become change
         for the crack of the paddle
On naked flesh
While I learned the art of silence as hands bit into my body with the beauty of iron-clad control

"Good girls are to be seen

Never heard"

It used to be that wives
Had to watch a train carry their husband away for a war
Across the sea and in foreign land

Today, wives watch their husband climb on a bus,
Jostle for a window seat
So he can wave good-bye one last time
Before he's taken to the plane that will carry him

Across the sea
To foreign land
And deep hatred

And she will go home,
And tell herself that she is strong
She will make it
As her heart slowly stops inside her chest.

A storm is coming.

Leaves scatter across my patio, scratching like bones over the cement, and I can feel it inside me.  Building up and building up until my skin is itchy.

I can't wait.

Getting up at five-thirty in the morning is great for my ability to hit my word count, but it's for the damn birds. 

But as long as I get this book done on time, I can deal with sleep deprivation.

I've set a due date.  February 28th. 

38 days. 

If I do five pages a day, it'll be a decent sized book to the contest.  Yeah, I'll be pushing the limit, but as long as it's in by the deadline, I can do it. 

Five pages isn't going to be too hard... Famous last words.

I've lost my mind. What little I had.  This is my push towards insanity.

March 15th.

Complete manuscript.

Book deal.

Cash prize.

Everything any writer, good or bad, could want.

Now I just have to finish, polish, submit, and keep my fingers and toes crossed.

And then drink a lot of booze when it's over, because what is a creative personality without binge drinking?