Yessica's Ramblings

2012-01-29T00:09:00.000-08:00

I was a smoker
For a time

Hand on jutted hip
Fingers trembled
Inhaling a darkness
Too pale to match my own

I quit for my husband and the children he promised me
I quit as the spirit of rebellion burned out
... I had nothing left to feed it

Now I walk past ephemeral fingers of death
And I cough and choke
The only memory their lashes whipping chest and throat

I walk away and I can breathe again
The swell of nausea sinks in my belly
Begging me to remember
What I gave up is nothing to what I have

I was leaving class one afternoon when I caught the tail of someone's cigarette smoke exhalation. Smokers don't annoy me. It's not an us-them feeling. It was just the passing of one of my own personal demons. This was written January 18.

2012-01-29T00:07:00.000-08:00

If I must have clouds
Then give me rain
If the sky is clear
I would be marked with summer stain
I would bask in the light of our warming sun
To live as free as a child born to run
I do not fear the dark under clouds
But the silence of weariness
Would force a mourning shroud
So give me sun
... And a bit of shade
And I'll share my warmth
Until the sun will fade.

I wrote this one January 17 when my son and I were waiting for the heater to kick in before getting him to his preschool class. It was a five minute poetry session.

2011-11-28T23:25:00.001-08:00

TwitteringAway

Find me on Twitter

I have a Twit Stream

I am a Twit

Open mind

Mental flow

In / Process / Out

Seconds,not moments

There is no thought

To the mental flow

That yells out around me

Inappropriate but funny

Angry political vice

It’s okay when I can’t know you

To repeat all you say

Censoring my senses

Means I have to think

Do I really want to repeat in words

What someone else has said

If I won’t even say it aloud?

No. Not Really.

For My Mom's Mom

2011-11-24T11:28:00.000-08:00

Made white rice in a pot
On the Stove
Measured water with finger
The way Koon Yai taught me
Pointing to the clock, counting out fifteen minutes
Without words
We had no words
She had greasy stringy hair of black and white
Paper thin skin, pulled up and stayed up
Obedient to her as I could never be
I washed the pot the next day, discarding unfinished rice
Crunchy on top with a bottom of mush
Searing pain through my gut with the agony of remembrance
My rice failed her teachings
And I missed her
Missed her hunched shoulders
And the threadbare clothes from Thailand
She had worn for 20 years until it was replaced with a hospital gown
I used to watch her make her gum.
Leaves rolled with paste and coins from trees.
A screwdriver for a pestle
She added tobacco and spit in a cup
Spit of blackish brown frothing disgust
And I miss it

2011-11-20T17:29:00.001-08:00

I've been going to school, full time for the past year or so. As a mom and wife, some days are a little more work than others. This quarter, I Mondays are madness. I have a 1:30-3:10 class, and go back for a 6:10-10 class. The rest of the week isn't nearly as insane, but I started trying out an approach to creative non-fiction. I want to flesh it out a bit, and incorporate more of my voice, but here it is, in it's raw glory. It’s the fall quarter, and a Monday. Class was let out just moments ago and I am sitting in my car, letting the peace and excitement of the last hour and forty minutes wash over me and wash away as I start counting off the minutes until my son is out of pre-school. He’s out at 4:00 sharp, but I can arrive five minutes early. Only five minutes. The list of my duties piles mentally, and prepares to tip as I start the car and head around the bend to the childcare center on campus. When I arrive, Aiden acknowledges my presence with a coy smile. He’s still working a puzzle and wants to finish it, and considers starting the next one before he is ready to leave. I try to enjoy these moments rather than rush him because he has time to play as he should and I don’t. I take the stairs, my arthritic knees groaning in complaint with each step, shouting out in random creaks. Aiden runs along the ramp, and we meet at the bottom, reaching for each other’s hands as we walk through the parking lot to the car where he is a big boy and can strap himself into his car seat. There is so much freedom at the age of four. We get home and it’s when the rush begins. I walk in and say hi to our older sons, Jonathan (10) and Devin (8). They’re in the same autism class at school and my husband works on homework with them when they get home. He helps with homework when he meets them after school. My husband has rearranged his work schedule to go in earlier so he can meet them at the bus after school because the older two get home when I’m in class. On Tuesdays, my Dad helps out. My husband doesn’t get much more than a hello as I drop my backpack on our bedroom floor and head for the kitchen where I prepare dinner. I start with peeling potatoes then dicing them. “Mommy, please give me some Koolaid.” Stop chopping. Rinse hands. Pour the drink and continue dicing. We’re out of the meat marinade my family likes, so I throw together a mixture of minced garlic, Dijon mustard and Worcestershire sauce, hoping my boys will eat it and not demand something else, throwing off my budgeting and planning that takes place during the grocery trip on pay days. Next I run my vegetable peeler along the zucchini, long ribbons of green fall off in slivers of slime because these are fresh from the yard. I toss the tri-tip in the oven, and start the potatoes boiling. In a sauté pan, the zucchini sits in a small amount of butter. I head to the bedroom to rest my legs and mind a bit. “What’s your hurry?” my husband says. He’s laid back and seems content with the world. He’s happy I’m home. I’m just as happy to see him but exhausted. We’ve been married eleven years and the sparks and glow are still there on the important things. “I have to get this done and I don’t know if dinner will be ready by the time I leave for class. If I have to go, I’ll set it up so you just have to pull the roast out when the alarm beeps.” In that moment his face falls and he replies, “I forgot” and I see his world has collapsed under the weight of my pending and temporary abandon. He’s sad that he’ll be home alone with the kids and he’s exhausted from his day at work. I forget my own hunger. I get up to check on dinner repeatedly, returning to my bed for the rest I need, but won’t fully get until much later tonight. Turn the green slivers of zucchini over. Pierce the potatoes to make sure they’re tender, drain them and add butter and the rest of the half and half because I forgot to pick up milk and there’s just enough for the glass that Jonathan likes with dinner. In that moment, I want to be in class. In that moment I don’t care that my kids will go to bed before I get home. I refuse to be brought down by the idea that the moment I am waiting for with patient anticipation is the moment my husband is dreading the most. The classroom is my refuge. I stab the meat thermometer into the roast with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. I set the timer and hope the batteries don’t die. Packing my books for my second class of the day, I run out on my kids and husband for school, feeling a little guilty. I reach the Valley entrance to Cal State LA, and start singing to “Roxanne” along with the police, ignoring the nagging notion that maybe I’ve sold my soul to the restraints of motherhood that I have framed my life with. I double check that my clothes aren’t red. Parking is easy enough and I lock up, throwing my parking permit on the rear view mirror and walking to class, knowing I’m late and will make someone get up to let me in. I take a little pleasure knowing that someone is jumping up for me and I’m on the receiving end of someone else’s efforts. In the classroom I am not rushing to prepare a meal, knowing it will be finished before I get home and the possibility of a plate being saved for me is always a gamble. In the classroom, there is no rush and bustle to get a million things done, and if there is, it’s not my responsibility. All of the frustrations of my day can slowly melt away because this is my time to be the center of attention, even if for a question or answer at a time. I’ll worry about the grocery trip I still need to make after class. I’ll worry about the laundry loads that need to be done once I am home, and the pile of dishes in the sink will wait patiently for me. And once my husband goes to sleep, I will work on my homework. First one up and the last one to bed, but that golden time in the classroom is worth it all.

Such a naughty bloggess.

2010-12-16T11:53:00.001-08:00

That short story never did happen. I think I forgot about my blog for a while. Last post, I think I made it clear I was a surrogate mother for the second time. I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, making a family grow. I can't describe the feeling, except that it is all of the good in life you can imagine.

It's hard as a mom with special needs children to feel like a good mom. I never feel like I can do enough, and it's hard to keep going and not just give up. I give up on housework. I tune the world out when I get lost in a book. The only time I feel I've done all I was supposed to is in the act of carrying and delivering a baby. I know I can do so, and by some accounts, including my own, it's fairly easy. (2 hours of contractions I felt, and one push until his head was out) Then to give someone something they've wanted so much and for so long. . . It feels amazing.

I decided to go back to school in the summer of last year. As in summer of 2009. I applied, and was accepted for fall of 2010. I was also very pregnant then. The baby was born at 37 weeks on October 8. School started in September, and the quarter just ended last week with finals. I went to my class on Thursday and felt random contractions throughout it. He was born on Friday. I would've gone to class the following Monday, except that childbirth tends to make a woman leaky in all sorts of uncomfortable ways. I went to class a week later, instead. I walked away with a B in American Literature, and a C+ in British Literature.

Toward the end of the quarter, I found out that my instructor was up for tenure. Students were asked to submit their opinions, and I was happy to write a letter for her. She was cool with me skipping out on her class to give birth, and was fine with late assignments. It was my way of thanking her. I balanced it with a dig at her horrid penmanship, it wasn't all sunshine. I turned it in the same day that was the last day for scholarship applications. I found out yesterday that I got it. I started sobbing, just floored because my GPA wasn't good enough, but my letter made it good enough to be looked over. So I'll share tidbits. I promised not to blog about my family, giving the world their privacy and so I'll keep part of that promise and omit the parts about my husband.

November 30, 2010

To whom it may concern;
My name is Yessica Maher and I’ve been a college student off and on since the fall of 1996. In the past decade I have had an average of one child every two years. Three of those are mine. The last two have been children I’ve borne as a surrogate mother. My older two sons are autistic, and my little one has developmental delays. Most of my energy and efforts are poured into my roles as mother and wife. School is something done selfishly for myself. It has nothing to do with my roles in life, but everything to do with being an individual.

My accomplishments include an Associate’s degree in General Education Transfer Studies, as well as a certificate in Communications from Glendale Community College. I spent a semester writing for their school paper, El Vaquero.

School is a refuge for me. When I am in a classroom, I am not a mother and wife. I’m just another student with no more or less responsibility than the student next to me. Graduation, once I get there will be a tangible way for me to monetize my love of literature through teaching.

To acknowledge my low GPA, clearly it took too long to figure out that while I am fascinated by science, I do not have the ability to easily wade through the math it requires.
Best regards,

Yessica Maher

So while this is no compelling short story, it's the chronicles of my life for the last few months. Maybe the short story will come soon. Maybe not. At this point, I think the surprise post would be more fun than something I try to get you, Dear Reader to anticipate.

Stalling

2010-07-06T17:18:00.000-07:00

The goal was to write a short story in a couple of days. I forgot I’d have three little ones home on summer vacation. They are busy little guys. They’re good at draining so much from me that I only want to sleep. Or, like last night, I wasn’t thinking of sleep. Not before 11:00 last night anyway. I was thinking of writing about a Mommy and her mommy issues. But that’s not the story I wanted to share. I was just having a really difficult time channeling the story I had started on. Those thoughts were so scattered.
On the plus side, I did learn a bit about my writing style. Like in the past, the thoughts flow much more fluidly when it’s late at night. I’ve learned about the music in my writing though. I can’t listen to music with lyrics or a dance beat. I tend to sing or get up and dance. But I seem to thrive when listening to classical music. It’s calming and it doesn’t drive me to distraction.
How am I writing now? The kids are home with the sitter. I’m sitting in my husband’s frigid office, waiting for him to get off. He’s listening to some rap/hip hop station. (Not my cup of tea, or brand of cola) There is internet access, but since they have a SONICwall blocking anything fun, writing is happening. Nothing creative, mind you. This is more informative. Because again, there’s the rap/hip hop stuff going on and through my ears, filtering to my brain which can’t seem to create like this.
So, that short story is still coming. It’s just coming slowly. I can’t seem to function unless I’ve had plenty of alone time. Hopefully lots of good writing will happen this weekend. Crossing fingers and toes, and hoping and wishing so hard, it’s like holding my nose.
In other gripeyness. . . I had a conversation with someone. We talked about my child care provider, who I love! He’s older than I am by a couple of years. The kids adore him. He’s punctual if not early on days that I have appointments. On days when I’m flexible, he is too. We’re flexible when it comes to time because I stay at home, and whether or not he comes over, I’m usually stuck at home. The point of conflict came when I let her know he is gay. No, it’s not my closet to come out of, but I’d much rather face that let down than pass on his info to have that slap him in the face. He’s a wonderful person and when I let people know how wonderful he is, they naturally want to know if he’s free.
The part that bothered me was how radically things change when the admission is made that his sexual preference is different from most breeders. She specifically said, “I have no problem with their orientation, I just don’t want to see it.” Frankly, I don’t think he’d want to see what happens in her bedroom either. Then she said, “Well, I guess it’s okay if he has a boyfriend.” As if sexual predators don’t come in straight, or female, old or young. People are capable of all sorts of things, no matter what excites them. Some people are just sadistic. I’m grateful to have such a warm and gentle care giver for my children. He even does housework. I’m happy with him. I don’t care to discuss what happens in my bedroom and neither does he. Sexual preference aside, we have much in common and he’s become a really good friend.
Beyond that, we talked about my surrogacy. I’m happy to share what I’m doing because it’s something that feels good. I feel no shame. She asked if I had thought about having more of my own children. My husband wants to try for a girl, but I feel my hands are full, and I’m content with the three boys I have. She went on to add that with two autistic children, having more would be an unreasonable gamble. I feel that children are a blessing in their way, but there is a cost. Most days I’m glad I’m a Mom of three. Some days I wish I weren’t. I’m sure that admission makes me evil in some people’s books. I’m over it. I haven’t given up. I’m just more realistic about it all. I love my children. I can’t imagine life without them, nor would I really want to. At the same time, I know how much work motherhood requires. I know what it’s like to stay up with a sick baby. I know that we plan to care for our children for at least 18 years. I also know that sometimes those plans must change and we have to figure out their care after we are gone and they still need us for basic daily needs. For that reason, I feel that what I have is enough.
I am a surrogate. I love being pregnant. I love being able to help someone who really wants a baby to achieve that goal. It’s a choice. I choose to help them, just as they trust me with the most precious part of their hearts. It all means so very much. As far as my own family, I feel we’re at a good place. This is based on what I want to go through. At the end of the day, my desire to have more children will not specifically burden anyone outside of my family. It tends to be my family that gets asked to babysit. It tends to be my family asked to attend birthday parties. So as far as my family is concerned, it’s no one else’s business. One day I may decide I miss having a little one running around the house. I may give it one more try to have a little girl with my husband. At that time, it will be a decision that my husband and I make. It will not be something we ask others to weigh in on. That being said, unsolicited advice or opinions are not requested, required or appreciated.

Returning to normalcy.

2010-06-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

Well, it's a return to normalcy after a hectic couple of weeks. My oldest and youngest had skipped school on June 4, because they were coming down with something. That something hung around for a while and they went back to school today. Mind you, it's the end of the school year, and the very last week of the year.

This past Wednesday, that something nasty had my two coughing up a lung. With the lack of appetite and inability to keep much down, I worried about dehydration and their breathing and took them to the emergency room.

Any parent can attest to the fact that there is no such thing as hopping in the car when you have kids. It's packing a diaper bag, and trying to remember the sippy cup (I didn't), and making sure all the kids are loaded and belted in. Then there's the actual house with the animals. It's locking the doors and making sure the animals have the vittles and water they'll need while you're gone. Heading out the door, we made sure Chloe puppy was outside when we left. While we were gone, she found her way inside again. During her break in, two of our cats made it outside. It was Milk kitten's only time ever getting out on his own. Getting home early in the morning, it was something I only thought about the next day.

By mid afternoon that Thursday, my middle son was feeling antsy and wanted to go out into the yard. He took my little one who was feeling good, save for that hacking cough. I went out to check on them, and that's when I saw the dead cat outside my window. By the tail and the size of the poor thing, I immediately knew it was my cat, Arwin. The cat was on it's back, only it's tail and belly were visible. The gash on it's neck along with it's entire body had been licked clean, and it's eyes were covered with ants. I sent the kids inside and called my husband. He came home, and put the cat into a pillowcase. He then carefully placed the cat in the trash bin. There was no way we could bury it with our dogs and kids being so curious all of the time. He found a new home for Chloe puppy. Then took Chester dog to the pound.

I know it seems harsh to get rid of dogs that do what is in their nature, but it was a long time coming. Chloe puppy was a puppy. She was chewing everything, saving her pee and poop for inside the house, and playing rough with the cats. They loved playing with her, but she needed constant intervention. She needed to be housebroken and that takes time and energy that is a rare commodity for me. It's nonexistant for my husband. Aside from that, it was her need to break into the house that left an opening for the cats to get out.

Chester was a dog we had as newlyweds. We had to give him up when we moved to our first apartment. He spent many years with my cousin and was happy there. She moved out of state and needed a new home for him so we took him back. He had a massive lump in his side. Crust was forming all around his eyes. He was unable to use one of his hind legs, and he was constantly trying to attack the cats. I'm pretty certain he was the one to kill the cat. My husband found a home for Chloe but we knew a home for Chester was impossible. He went to Animal Control, where we are pretty certain he will be put to sleep.

I spent that day in tears. I wasn't able to control the anguish I felt, and my kids were confused and just as hurt as I was. This was a rare moment to be grateful for the emotional ties their autism prevented. The older two were confused and offered to get me another cat, and they jumped in with dog hate. My little one hardly understood a thing, except that Mommy was upset and crying.

Once the dogs were gone, and it was only Nature left there wasn't any barking. Nature has always been good with every cat we've had here. Socks cat came home after being gone nearly a week. Later that night, I heard mewling outside my window and ran around the house to grab my Milk kitten. Instead, it was my cat Arwin! I could have sworn she was killed and my joy at having her back was shadowed by the fact that Milk wasn't home.

I woke up before dawn that morning when Arwin cat climbed on my belly and licked my nose. For a moment, I thought it was Milk. I had been dreaming of him. I was determined to untie the knot on the pillowcase and find out who was in it. When the sun came up, I went to do so but was overcome by the smell. Trash day was Monday. I cried most of the day, feeling certain that the cat was either Milk, or that I will never see him again.

It's been nearly a week, and I still marvel at how acutely such a tiny kitten could find his way into my heart. I haven't mourned a pet like this since I was a teenager, and my dog Bear had died. Before that was when my older dog, Spikey had to be put to sleep. Other than that, animals have always just been companions. I feel as though he was family and I really miss him. It's painful and surprising.

So, I haven't blogged in a while, and now you know why. I plan to write a short story to post in the next few days as an apology of sorts. I like blogs that are updated regularly and I have to assume other readers do as well. This short story will even be proof read and revised. (I don't do much with blog posts because I would censor myself too much.)

Memorial Day

2010-05-30T23:06:00.000-07:00

When I think of Memorial Day, I think of the Veterans. I think of those who have left their families to serve their country. They do a job where they face the fear of death on a daily basis. They not only put aside their fears for their own safety. They accept what pain they may be leaving their parents, spouses and children in. They know that what they do is greater than what they feel. Sometimes they do a job they don't believe in because it is their sworn duty. They do what they can to protect us, to ensure our freedom, to do what they believe is right - whether or not we appreciate it.

When I remember my Dad, a Viet Nam Veteran those memories shift slightly. I remember constantly reintroducing my friends to him. My Dad has a hard time remembering names. He once told me that it was hard during the war to remember a name when that person you met the day before could be dead the very next day. I remember learning early on to never surprise Daddy and wake him up. There was a good chance he'd wake up swinging. There are times when Dad will go on long speeches about the inevitability of a war on American soil that would destroy our lives and make friends and neighbors turn on each other. My Dad is in a constant state of alert. Among strangers, he plays the part. He's animated and friendly. Alone or with those who know him best, he's quiet and brooding, and constantly plagued by ghosts. The doctors call it post traumatic stress disorder. I call it the indelible mark of war on a young man.

When you gather with family and friends. . . When you barbeque and have a few brews. . . Please remember why the banks and schools are closed. Please remember the rights that so many have bled for. Remember that there are those who have lost limbs, lives, and emotional or mental freedom. They've done this for us. They've given so much and asked for so little. It's more than a holiday. It's a reminder to thank a Vet.

About last night, can I make up for it with an eclair?

2010-05-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

I felt guilty about not following through and realized I haven't gifted a something in a while. I think we'll call this an eclair.

It's more than a decade old and about someone other than my husband, but I thought about it after posting that I lied. This relationship lasted about a month. It's important to not forget about those who have touched our lives. They've left their own mark, and to honor that, I honor the memories. But really, they're just memories.

I Lied

You feel wrong
But you feel
We’re right
I lied to you
To get what I wanted
Good sex
Or at least a reliable partner
I lied to you
And almost regret it
As we fumbled around in a drunken heap
I thought I’d like the ties – emotional ties
Of being a couple – an us
Now I’m sober
And I watch you march my freedom
Off
In shackles
All because
I lied to you
You’re not jealous
That’s good
You’re not entirely possessive
That’s boarder line
You expected me to be home
While you gallivanted your way out the door
With your friends
There’s no need to explain my sentiments there

I lied to you and went alone to a bar
I lied to you
As if I didn’t enjoy myself
But I did
But I’m not going to lie to you
And say that we’re just not worth it
Because then I’d start lying to myself

So I lied.

2010-05-28T23:20:00.001-07:00

I started my outline and didn't get far, but I think it's the pregnancy, or maybe just the day I've had. I'm drifting off to sleep. Maybe I'll wake up in the mood to write and I'll have no kids to hold me back in the morning. I'll keep you posted.

Two days in a row.

2010-05-28T21:49:00.000-07:00

I'm making an effort to blog consistently. I don't know if it's leaps and bounds, but two days in a row is good progress, because I will not knock any small bit of progress. It's rude to that little engine inside of me that really believes I can do it.

I'm home alone tonight. It's strange and perfect all at once. Well, the animals don't count, now do they? (As I hear the puppy playing with the kitten in the other room. . . ) The kids are with my Mom. My husband went to a concert. Many years ago I loved being alone and forgot all about that. It's hard to remember when I am surrounded by my kids and husband and the life we built around them. I had forgotten how blissful those quiet moments of solitude afforded. I love the quiet. Home alone, the television is off. There is no music. The only sound right this second is my fingers flying furiously across this keyboard - the gentle thrum of the fan, and there is comfort here. I like being in my own company.

All day long, I've been craving southern food. Grits, cornbread, fried chicken, watermelon, hush puppies. . . All day I've wanted that comfort that can only be found in food. Now that I am alone, I have no such cravings. I don't even feel hungry, but I will probably eat something anyway for the sake of the kid tapping at my belly right now. It's just the feeling of being alone.

I've heard it said at funerals especially, that we are born alone, and we die alone. Maybe it's true, but there are so many alone moments in between that are just as beautiful. I like the times alone in a bath, or snuggled with a good book. I like the times alone when I can have a good cry. The time to write is so precious. I like when the only noise is mine, when the only messes are those I've made. It doesn't mean I don't want my family around. I love all three of my boys and my husband more than I could ever sum up in words. It's just that I also love myself and it's hard to remember and honor that when I get swallowed up in all that is life.

So it's time. I will publish this post, and re-read the tidbit notes I've scribbled over the last several months. I will pick and choose the parts I like and come up with an outline I can work from. I don't know how long this outline will take, but I know it will be started tonight, and I will not rest until there's a beginning, middle and end. The other twists and turns can always be added later, but I will have the bare bones of my outline tonight. Oh, and maybe some noodles. They're calling to me now.

Starting over.

2010-05-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while, but I plan to correct that.

I haven't blogged since November. I started this blog as a way to be held accountable for my writing. If I have an audience to answer to, in theory I'd be more likely to write regularly and update my readers frequently. But I haven't written in a while, so I haven't blogged in a while. I used to blog all of the time when my blog was only to family and friends on Myspace. I made this one less personal and found I had little to write about. It's time for a change. I will start slowly.

I don't remember what I've blogged about in the past so forgive me if I repeat myself. I only go back if I plan to edit, and there's no editing a blog. I can't change my yesterdays to save face today.

I like to garden. Really, I like it when things grow, but I tend to forget to add water. Being in Southern California makes that a bad idea. Several months ago, I learned that the soil right next to my house more than likely is full of lead. That's the spot that was perfect for my thriving herb garden. I watered it regularly enough and picked bits here and there for dinner on a daily basis. Naturally, I let it go and started over further away. I now use the hillside in front of the house. It's hard to find the same energy and zeal I had originally when I feel like my plants betrayed me. At the same time, I learned what I use and what I don't. There was no need to replant the lemongrass, Thai basil, or marjoram. I started over and learned a few lessons.

I have three boys. They are 8, 7, and 3. The oldest two are autistic. The baby has developmental delays. That being said, I am a mom but a selfish one. I don't look for the chance to bond with other parents because I have my own issues. When I blog or chit chat with others, it's not to wallow, but to escape. If I want to complain, I do it to my journal. There are no wary looks or snide comments there. I can admit my aweful side and not feel bad about it. If it creeps into my blog, I apologize. I will try my best to only blog about it when I find the humor in the situation.

I'm a surrogate. I'm currently pregnant. This is the second time I have had the immeasurable pleasure of carrying a child for someone else. I love being pregnant, but really don't want to care for more children. I've heard that it's generous of me, but believe me when I say it's good for me too. There are few things in life that can compare to the joy I feel as a surrogate.

I live with too many animals. My husband has two snakes. I say he does because I don't touch or feed them. We also have three cats and three dogs. I like the cats. They keep the mice away. We live on a hillside where rodents are inevitable. The dogs, I could probably live without. The oldest is Chester. We had him as a puppy but had to give him up. Nearly a decade later and his last owner had to give him up. We have him now, and it would be bliss, except he's an onery old man now. He doesn't like the other two dogs and tries to eat the cats. Nature is a good girl. She's been around long enough that she knows how to stay on my good side. The latest addition to our family is Chloe. She's a mutt and a puppy, so I tend to call her Muppy. She's cute but a puppy-complete with chewing habits, all niglht play and bark sessions, and puppy surprises in every room. Thankfully, we have no carpeting or rugs. My husband has been trying a training collar on her. It makes annoying noise and has a little shock to it. The plan is noise her twice before buzzing her. I accidently left the remote on the bed and fell back asleep this morning. My little one found it. My husband ran in the bedroom, wondering what happened after he saw poor Chloe running in circles and jumping randomly. My three year old just didn't know. I find it funny only because of the puppy, kitty tag that kept me up most of last night. I know it's really mean, but I'm a little vindictive at times - specifically when those times come after someone has kept me up all night. I'm usually very passive aggressive.

My oldest just informed me he wanted to take his pet frog to school but his teacher said no. It's a relief because I just walked by and noticed the smell of a dead frog before I started blogging. I know it sounds evil, but the frog will make it to the trash and be gone for a good month before any of the kids notice it's missing.

I like to cook, but I hate cleaning up. My goal as a teenager was to grow up and make enough money to hire someone to clean up after me. Still haven't grown up, no matter how many laps around the sun I've trudged.

Last, I'm going back to school this fall. I was in school before, majoring in Geology. It wasn't going to work out for another decade. Geology is the study of the earth. To study the earth, field trips were part of the grade. These weren't always trips that took a few hours out of my day. They took a few days or more sometimes. It's not practical when you have little ones. So I changed majors. I am now returning as an English major. School starts in September, and the quarter will last until December. Did I mention my due date for the baby boy in my belly is October 28? I applied for school last summer and the only available quarter was this fall. Don't ask my how I plan to pull it off. I haven't figured it out yet, but I will.

And I will write. Sooner than later. It's important to read as much as you can as well as write as much as you can. It's so easy for me to get caught up in the reading because there are so many wonderful books out there, just waiting to be lined up on my Kindle. The writing has fallen behind though. I started by trying to just write and although the beginning started out strong, I had some wasted memory on my computer before long. So I started outlining, and kinda got stuck there. It seems that as soon as I start writing what I think should happen, it just doesn't look good enough anymore. It's all flowing in my head, and it's screaming to come out. I'm going to write again. It's no longer something I plan to do. I will have my outline and at least half of the book done before I go to school this fall. In those terms, I can't let myself down, can I?

Sleep would be too easy

2009-11-12T02:54:00.000-08:00

A sound much like thunder but closer to garbage trucks rattled the glass of my bedroom window. Sleep was taken so abruptly from me, there was no use in rubbing the crust out of my eyes. Again, a thunderous clatter, and I look to my left to see my sleeping toddler creating a soft echo of my husband's snores.

Softer echoes of the storm at my window drew my attention once more. It was only one window and not the other. My sleep addled mind tried hard to focus on what I was hearing and slowly staggered to my feet. Pain shot thorugh the soles of my feet as they screamed in protest for making them move so quickly before I had given them a wiggle from my laying down position. I again remembered one of the appointments I'd been meaning to make during business hours, that I would doubtless forget by morning. Poor circulation is something a doctor could fix. I hobbled to the window and just short of it saw two eyes blazing at my through the roller blind.

Fear held me in place as the roller blinds slowly opened throughout my little house. I can't keep them from snapping open each morning, but now they decide to roll slowly away, to expose our secrets to the outside world.

The eyes watching me were attached to a young man. He wore a tattered t-shirt. It was once white but was now covered by dirt, grease and blood. It looked as if it had been worn for years, and it's wearer was marked by the same years of abandon. I reached for the cordless phone to call the police. Shakey fingers dialled, 9-2-1 before hanging up and trying again. Focusing intently on the phone I dialed 9-1-1 and then looked up to see the man missing.

Staying on the phone, listening to a message from a long winded mayor I never voted for, or against, I looked around and saw a boy who looked very much like the man, wearing my husband's blue and white plaid shirt, in several sizes too large. Looking at my husband, sleeping by the window, I realised the accordian shaped plastic that blocked off the outside from in, was pushed aside for the cats to roam freely. The boy I watched Skipped merrily, as my panic made my shoulders tense and bile rise, burning my throat.

I held out my hand, curiously, hoping he'd return the shirt. He slowly raised it over his head, leaving all buttons in their respective holes, and held it up to the closed window I had originally seen the man in. Taking my eyes off of the proffered shirt, I gazed up and found I was again looking at the man who terrified me. The mayor had finished his monologue, and the phone was finally ringing again.

I pointed my finger toward the gap in the window, and he brought the shirt there, exchanging it for the remote control that my husband had fallen asleep with, while cradling it like a blankie. I felt gratitude that the man hadn't thought to grope or harm my sleeping husband, but resolutely held my hand aloft, once again for our remote control. Getting a replacement from the cable company would only take a week, but the call to help reprogram it is a daunting task I'd rather avoid.

Finally a woman answers on the emergency call I'd been trying to make to report this visitor. She clears her throat once or twice before saying, "one moment please, and I'll be right with you."

I was raised in a time long ago where it is rude to refuse a request that included please. It is an age where you remain on hold when asked to hold, and make no complaints when the person returns to you, even if you'd waited a half hour. So I waited, watching the man zoom back and forth through the yard. He saw me watching and made an abrupt approach to my bedroom window. From far away, he was certainly a man, as he approached, his features softened, lines became curves and taut muscle gained the soft tenderness of child flesh. He was again a boy, watching me with unabashed curiosity.

We looked at each other, I with a fear that boiled in my belly, he with a gentle curiosity that asked for nothing more than he could see. I heard a noise from the bedroom next to mine, and ran, making sure my other children were okay. The gentle snoring from both boys calmed me slightly, and I saw the culprit that created the noise I'd heard. . . A fallen toy train that had kept my son company as he went to sleep. The boy followed me from the outside, watching my every move.

I looked down at my button down, satin night shirt and felt suddenly over exposed. As his gaze wandered to my own fearful gaze at myself, his features shifted once again to that of a man. He stretched taller. His limbs lengthened and the lines of his body cut and defined his muscles. His shoulders broadened and a gentle wind blew his shirt against him so I could see his chest tapering to his waist in a V shape. He was a man before me, looking at my barely covered body and I ran.

From room to room, I pulled down roller blinds. Each room I entered was a room he was already waitng for me at outside with a guileless smile. At the third window, a look of sad disappointment pulled his full lips down, and worry lines creased his forehead between his eyes. Those eyes watched me with a tender longing as if I had something he desperately wanted, but had no way to ask.

Next to my ear, the faint buzzing of sound snapped my attention away from him. I looked at the object in my hand, scarcely remembering it was a phone and I had called for police to save me from this intruder. I held the phone closer to my ear and whispered, "there's a stranger outside my house, and I think he's trying to break in."

"You mean he hasn't gotten in yet? You should've been terminated by now."

Shocked into silence, I hung up the phone and began to scream, hoping I'd wake my husband and kids. . . Hoping some help would arrive and save us from what ever was about to befall us.

And then I woke up. Yes, most of my dreams are this vivid. But now I've blogged and can hopefully get back to sleep. G'Night!

Once again, it's been forever!

2009-10-25T23:56:00.000-07:00

I've been so busy being busy lately that it's sad. Really sad. But my story isn't dead. It's evolving via outline in a green composition book because I've learned I'm a lousy pantser and I do my best when plotting. But I haven't figured out how much plotting is enough. What's even harder is knowing that there are a couple of other stories in my head, and that I want to get this outline done before going on to the other two that help keep me up at night. Once again, the goal is to get it written down, and look for others to keep me accountable. That would be you, hapless reader who stumbled upon this blog.

On another note, I got a CNN interview based on a tweet on Twitter the other day. My two year old's school has had an H1N1 outbreak. I want to get him his shot. My doctor doesn't have it and his office doesn't know if or when they'll get it. I want the shot myself. Hoping to get pregnant again, it's highly advised for preggie ladies. Right now, in Los Angeles, there are clinics set up for people without insurance who want the shot and are in the high risk category. Why don't I go there, you might ask? I'm not looking forward to having a two year old wait for several hours in an environment that may be swimming with other germs or disease. It's like playing in the mud on the way to the shower, and hoping you don't get muddied up again on the way out. Call me picky. I know I am. Some battles are not worth the fight, when waiting will do just as well. I can and will complain though.

It was for CNN, but they sell their stories so I'm finding my words and that picture of my sons all over the net. Good times for my 5 minutes.

Just what has been going on?!

2009-08-22T08:22:00.000-07:00

I really haven't written in quite a while. The story hasn't died. I sometimes dream of my characters, constantly obsess over writing in the first or third person, keep changing things in my mind, and write notes and tweak my outline.

My excuses?

We have a new kitty cat. She likes to snuggle and demands attention. I kiss the hubby, and she claws at him. I check for Twitter updates, and she's nudging my blackberry with her face. She's even taken to walking across the keyboard when I use the laptop.

Also the boys are still on vacation. It's so hard to write when they're in need of my mommy services. And my next surrogacy is coming up. My husband says I'm nesting with the way I keep trying to do all of the heavy lifting in my garden because I can't do it after the embryos are transferred.

The outlook?

Not so bleak. This is the first time in years where I will have a few hours to myself, three days a week. The boys will be in school again soon, and this year, the baby is starting pre-school. He'll be in class while they're in school, and my plans are to take advantage and write. My goal is to get housework in when the baby is home, and writing in when it's me and the animals. With the planning and developing going on outside of the actual writing, I am hopeful. This year I like fall almost as much as I love spring. I got over summer when I became a mom. It is a duty laden season.

For now, kidlets are waking, and I have a tree I want to plant.

Recent thoughts, and on my writing progress.

2009-07-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

I'm adding my voice to the din of shock and sorrow about the passing of so many celebrities in such a short time.

It's not so much about Farrah. She had cancer. With her passing, is the sweet compassion of the absence of pain. I'm sure it's completely bittersweet for her family. You cannot mourn fully, when you know she is no longer in pain.

I loved watching David Carradine when I was younger. His moves seemed so calm and effortless. It was more ballet than Kung Fu. But his death was an accident.

As for some of the other celebrities that have lived long lives. . . Well, it's natural, and at some point, to be expected.

Michael Jackson was a biggie, but not because I was always a fan. It was sudden and unexpected, and not some freak accident. He had some great hits through the years. Some I loved, some I don't think I've ever heard. He had some scandals. We all have skeletons we'd like to beat up and hide, or pay off, but his were pretty public. And yet, I never followed the hubub or let the allegations rob me of sleep. More than anything, Michael Jackson meant so much in my life because through the years, he was always there. I've always had the radio on, then went to CD's, and now it's my iPod. I have no Michael Jackson music on my Nano, but he's always been on the soundtrack of my life. He's always been a part of my existence. In saying goodbye to him, I'm forced to say goodbye to myself. At least a part of my youth has gone on with him, leaving me slightly bereft. I have to look at my own mortality when I acknowledge that he was only 19 years my senior. I look at my own kids when I see that he's orphaned them at such young ages.

I was surprised and saddened at the passing of Billy Mays, too. Like Michael Jackson, his death was sudden and unexpected. It hit me pretty hard. I've never been one to shop on television, but I love a good infomercial and will watch and re-watch them. It has everything to do with Billy Mays. All three of my kids had a hard time sleeping through the night from birth. Kid 1 didn't sleep through the night until kid 2 was born. Kid 2 didn't sleep through the night until kid 3 was born. Kid 3 still doesn't sleep through the night. Before kid 3 was born, we didn't have cable. Billy Mays was a comforting face that became familiar and stayed up with me all of those nights. I began looking forward to his face and voice during those late nights when it was me and a crying baby. I'm really sorry that his life was cut short.

Well, onto my writing, by way of my reading. I love a good book. A really good read will make me forget food, drink, bathing, and sometimes the kids. A lot of books are page turners. But most are books that I can put down to cook dinner. A few books have been such great stories, that when the next one of the series came out, my husband had to do it all, feeling like I left him. I keep going back to the parts I know I don't like and changing them before doing the first run through because of this. I want my book to be so irresistible that it's hard to put down, even after I've marked my place.

Some authors write good books that are interesting and tell a great story, but I don't feel compelled to finish them. I read the Da Vinci Code, and then Devils and Angels because I wanted to read them. Once I started, I had to keep telling myself to finish it. I'm going through the same thing with Eragon. I want to read it because it's interesting, and too good to just throw in the recycle bin, but it's not so good that I forget to eat. I even picked out something I thought would be a great read as a reward for after Eragon. It's taking a lot of restraint to not just set Eragon aside again, and if I don't get past page 50 by tonight, I'm going to give in. I have to admit, Wuthering Heights is in this same category. They're good books. They're just not hypnotic.

I want my book to make the reader forget to eat. It's not there yet. So I am hovering around 10,500 words. I don't want to scrap it and start over. I want to tweak it into something more exciting. So, that's where I'm at.

A crumpet.

2009-06-18T13:03:00.000-07:00

So the writing is going, once again. I'm trying my best to just go through the first draft, saving revisions for much later. I'm sitting to write here and there between housework, and the baby trying to shut off the monitor, or snap the laptop shut, or his favorite, yanking my jump drive and playing, "Let's piss Mommy off by making her come and get it."

But it's coming together. I've had a few false starts that go several thousand words long before I scrap it and start over. I'm at almost seven thousand words right now, and loving it. The story has evolved so much. Much of the reason I had scrapped the first versions had everything to do with the fact that the writing was about working out issues, and those issues were mine, not my characters. Those issues took away from the story, giving me a different platform from which to leap off of. They served their purpose.

I had been sucked into an #askagent session on twitter this morning, and I've spent the morning reading blogs, and deleting follows on twitter. It's hard to keep up on what you want to when you get a bunch of meaningless tweets. Yes, I mean little much of the time too, but following me is a choice I leave to the follower. Which brings me to this blog post. It's time for that crumpet.

Remembering

i remember sitting on the phone with you.
“i love you” was an incoherent slur.
i remember your constant begging for me to join you.
flying was lonely without a hand to hold.
i remember sitting and watching you.
i feared your falling out the window.
i remember the colors you described to me.
your favorite was close to blue
i remember your sad days
to you, that was everyday.
i remember being next to you.
that was while you were in space.
i remember the funeral.
it wasn’t yours.
i remember the real you.
you were a punk.
i remember the high you.
you were a prince.

so what’s it like in heaven?
do you have someone to hold your hand?
are you cold like the times when you were coming down?
did you have your dreams come true?
is there nothing to worry about?
is there “stuff” to do?

i wish i were there to give you a hug.
i wish i could’ve stopped you.
i wish i knew if an angels’ wings were holding you.
i wish i had a way of telling you.
i wish i had the chance to take you from your drugs.
i wish they hadn’t taken you from me.

It's all about the updates.

2009-06-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

I'm still writing. It's still flowing in bits and spurts. I find that I wrote for longer periods when it was at the computer, but I'm much more likely to get into it at random times on the laptop. I think I may need to slow the emotional growth of my heroine, but she's coming along wonderfully. Part of me wants to make her have all sorts of verbal faux pas and physical foibles, but the other part of me wants to gift her with all I am not. Nothing is set in stone yet because blessedly, this is still the first draft which means I have plenty of wobble room.

I owe you a pastry of some sort, don't I? Well, not today. Kiddies require that extra attention I would otherwise give you right now.

Finding my new groove

2009-05-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

I was making fantastic headway in the beginning, writing while the family slept, and happily sacrificing my own sleep. Then the day hit when that just stopped working. Sleep is necessary. I get it now.

I was sitting here, trying to figure out my story, trying to write, and it just wasn't happening. I went back to my bed, and started watching television. As has become a new custom, I wasn't able to watch because my mind kept going back to my writing. There is magic there though, and I found a way to tap it. I type when I write, so a notebook just wasn't going to happen. But a laptop, on my lap, in bed with the television on. It's working.

I'd better get back to it though.

At eye level.

2009-05-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

I'm writing and living, and watching how I live. I went to a fourteen year old's house party a week or so ago. It was my nephew's. His first. I'm watching the kids, and dancing myself when a fight nearly breaks out. I'm the only adult around, so I break it out, forcing the teens to join the rest of the adults out front. In hindsight, I over reacted. Majorly. But there was no fight. Also in hindsight. Had I been at eye level with my audience, I probably wouldn't have broken it up. I would've watched like the other teens.

Easter eve, my husband and I were in line at a CVS pharmacy looking for last minute Easter goodies. Most stores had sold out, and the pickings were slim. Two young women were in front of us. I'm sure they were adults. The clerk was trying to get their attention because they were next in line. Kindly, I said, "Girls," as I pointed in the direction of the next available cash register. My husband and I walked away laughing at the fact that my age was beginning to show.

Last night, at the grocery store, there was a trendy couple buying alcohol in front of me. The cashier asked for the ID card, and once proffered had to take a double take. Yes, being born in 1984 made you old enough to buy alcohol in Los Angeles. It didn't seem like so long ago to him, and I agreed. I remembered the year. I was a little girl, sitting on my Dad's shoulders on Vermont (in the Eastern part of Hollywood) watching the runners race through Los Angeles during the 1984 Summer Olympics.

The point being, as I age I notice these tidbits that reveal my age. It's not about responsibility or appearance. It's the immediate unfocused thoughts and actions unfiltered that reveal lifelong lessons. As I see these things, I wonder if I'm actually able to relate to my audience. Am I at their eye level? Then I relax into one of the many YA fantasy books that I so adore myself. That's when it occurs to me, it's not just me. Looking critically, it's pretty obvious that the books I love are written by women my age or close to it, reliving their past the way I do when I write. They take their lessons learned, and recreate them vicariously through their characters. Sometimes the mother and adult shine through, but for the most part it's still worth the read. Therefore, I can't be that far off, and at least I know to watch for the age revealing tidbits that would wreck that ideal world I'm trying to recreate.

More on starting over.

2009-05-08T23:36:00.000-07:00

Work on my new manuscript has been a slow crawl. The outline is there, so I know where I plan to go, and I wonder if that is part of the problem.

Writing with no direction, just the choices I watched my characters make was so liberating. I was writing, and twists and turns just happened. No planning or forethought went into it. It was just free flowing magic.

Now I have an outline, and I'm having the hardest time writing. I have plenty of excuses though. First it was that I had a hard time sitting still when I have the cooking, cleaning, childcare, and animal care to occupy the best of my time and energy. I got the kids on a schedule, and I'm now trying to live on little sleep.

Then I started reading all of the blogs I could where I could find an agent, editor, or published author was spewing knowledge. I'd devour everything, including every possible tweet on twitter. Actually, I had also just added everyone I could on twitter as someone to follow, hoping to create a cache of people willing to read what I'd write. I decided to weed through the extras. I went through all of those I follow on Twitter first. I stopped following anyone who wasn't an editor, or agent, or a writer that I have either talked to (online) or whose books I've purchased and read (usually repeatedly).

Next I plan to go through all of the blogs I follow and weed out the extra readings from there.

Eventually I plan to look into all of the actual agents and editors I follow, and stop following any agent that wouldn't represent my work. The problem is there are so many people giving out wonderful advise in a world that is so new to me. At the same time, I'm knowingly following advise of those who would never represent my work, with the full knowledge that it is a highly subjective business.

So the kids are asleep. The husband is at a concert (not a fan of live music myself). Since he's gone, I don't feel the need to give him my full attention like I usually do. I've blogged the weight off of my heart. The dog and cat are sleeping at my feet, and I'm ready to work on my manuscript.

Updates with a cupcake.

2009-05-07T10:05:00.000-07:00

I'm still having writing issues. It's not going as well as I'd hoped. Maybe there's something to be said for writing without an outline. It flowed easily then. Now that there's an outline, it takes so much more effort to concentrate on following through. I'm at 4,228 words (or 13 pages, but the word count is somehow slightly more impressive). But here's the cupcake! Oodles more fun.

A Princess

I am a princess
I don’t hide it
Every one knows
Though they see me differently

That man,
Over there drowned in his
Hip-hop style
That street-talking-no-class-having boy
“What’s up?” he says
I smile
He sees me as some ghettofied Nubian Princess

My waiter
The waiter that has claimed me while I dine here
That dickies-wearing-gang-style boy
Attempting an honest living
He sees me as a puta
When I refuse the tap water he places in front of me
A puta
To some men, even princesses are putas
As the customer
I own him
As a princess
I pardon him

That girl
The one who can’t control her dirty looks
The one with the cheap perfume and
Butterfly wing eyelashes
The one who tries to cover her foul insides with that
Elaborate
Covering. She tries
So hard and doesn’t know
That she too can be a princess
I smile her way
And I don’t care what she thinks
Of me
I know I am a princess

Been so busy, being busy.

2009-05-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

I was so eager to get started and around 1600 words, I had to stop. Life called me. Dishes, laundry, floors. You know. Motherhood. Then I started with my own distractions. I read blogs now. So many editors and agents and other writers are on twitter, so I follow them, and every once in a while, catch an amazing tweet. And I follow their blogs on the good and bad things to put in or keep out of my manuscript, query letter, and brain for that matter. With so little time to myself, writing has been a back burner thing. The story hasn't died though. In my mind, it continues to grow and weave. I was in the shower this morning when I was thinking about all of the little things one character seems to know about the other. They're not lesbians. I didn't plan it that way. I just noticed the hero worship, and decided it should grow into comic proportions. Or not. But the thoughts are there, growing and fading, and once I'm done here, they should go on paper. I think I have a few hours of quiet for now. Unless I find something else to get into.

First hurdle

2009-04-29T07:42:00.000-07:00

I was having a hard enough time getting through the actual outline phase of my manuscript. There was the physical aspect of writing down what I needed to while still doing dishes, mopping floors, feeding the animals in our zoo, and then watching the kids so they don't hurt each other.

But it's done.

I have before me that other feared moment. The one where I begin to make my characters live and breathe on paper. (Or monitor, as it were.) It's a fear that I will fail them by falsely communicating their thoughts, fears and dreams. It's a fear that my perspective will shine through, and not theirs. Part of me is thinking of how ridiculous it sounds. I wonder if I'm on the verge of schizophrenia. At the same time I know it's a valid fear. We've all read pieces that come out as a monotone. They're called textbooks, and few of us enjoy reading them.

So today I'm starting something new. Again. When I used to write poetry, I'd start in pen or pencil on paper, then do the final editing on the computer. Then with the first draft of the manuscript, it went straight on the hard drive. This time, I'm going to have a go on paper first, then edit as I need to. Hopefully, the double writing will let me see it for what it is and not what I hope it to be. Yes, I do feel adequate guilt for wasting so much paper. Maybe I'll see how the first chapter goes between paper and computer, and decide thereafter.

Oh, as for my zoo. I care for the kids (3 boys, duties shared with the hubby) and the cat, and dog, and rats (7 adults, 3 of them are pregnant, and I have 18 babies), the tegu monitor lizard, the 2 tortoises, and two bearded dragons. The mountain horned dragon is still the hubby's responsibility for now with all of the snakes (10 altogether with the red tailed boa constrictors, dumerils boas, and gopher snake).

Funny tidbit. I had actually written snakes into the original manuscript, but when one of the corn snakes bit me, all of them came out.

More of my process.

2009-04-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

So over the last couple of days, I'd been having issues with deciding how my character receives her training, when she is the first and only of her kind. Last night I had several dreams, waking between each one. One of the dreams I had was formed on the tail end of thoughts about my story, and the ideas in the dream are going to work out in the actual story.

Also, there are times when I can't think of what a character is like until I'm doing the dishes or scrubbing something. The thoughtless process of busy work helps the ideas form and expand. Might not work for everyone, but it does for me.

I swear, I will soon (hopefully) finish that darn outline. I figure I should have a skeleton to follow, or she'll end up lost in tangents. I always do.

A Brownie.

2009-04-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

I had been sick this weekend, and passed whatever it was to my husband, then my middle child. He stayed home from school and was out of it this morning, but he seems fine now. He's out front throwing dirt over his head, and the head of my little one right now. I'm watching them while typing here, and it reminded me of an elephant taking a dirt bath.

It's chilly out, when last week we had a nasty heat wave (Los Angeles). The wind chimes are tinkling, which is major because of how my house is situated. We rarely get wind. Wish I'd known that before I bought all of the wind chimes and spinners outside. The front of my house looks like an old lady lives here. I like it though. Some of the bulbs I had planted almost two years ago are sprouting and blooming. If only I could remember what I planted and where I planted it.

Speaking of old lady... I was at a drugstore with my husband a few weeks ago. Actually, we were looking for last minute goodies to stuff in Easter baskets for the kids. The clerk was trying to get the attention of the two young ladies in front of us. They looked like they were in their early twenties maybe and were lost in their conversation. I thought I'd help out by letting them know it was their turn. "Um, Girls?" At that moment we knew it had happened. My husband and I left the store, laughing at the fact that I finally recognized that I was an old lady. I never in my wildest dreams thought the dawning of this day would happen at thirty-one. Never.

I looked out at the moon last night and it was a crescent moon, but the crescent part wasn't on it's side, it was on the bottom, like the curve of a fingernail, piercing a piece of fruit, palm facing up. Right now the skies are blue with a few wispy clouds drifting lazily, scattered haphazardly.

Just observations. I've discovered my main character and I'm ready to outline, but I still just want to write. At the same time, I'm a little scared to proceed. Once I start, I will have made all of my characters real and alive, and from my first attempt, I'm a little afraid of leading them in the wrong direction again. That, and I want to give it the time and attention it needs. I've gotten up eight times since I started to deal with Mommy duties, and I didn't get enough rest last night. So between brain farts (forgetting what was on the tip of my tongue) and noun deficiencies (calling my kids every other name but the one I gave them) I'm just not sure I'd do my work justice.

So here's the brownie I spoke of. I wrote this poem years ago when I was a student at Glendale Community College.

Glendale College Parking

It’s a dance, really
Driving in circles
Watching, coveting the person
Walking to their car
They tease you seductively
Knowing they’re being watched
Your pulse races
Foreplay
The car is moved
And it returns to the sea of other cars
Somewhere on the floor – in the backdrop of your mind
Before your spot is stolen
You plunge forward
Backing slowly
Then forward and in again
It’s become an art now
Easing the friction
Sliding in and out until
Your surroundings are
Equidistant with the slickness of space
You’re surrounded
Held almost
That spot is yours
You shift the gear into park position
And the hum of the engine is calm
It sits in it’s spot
Idle and content
You turn off the engine
And your car is at rest
You lock up and head off to class
And you forget – that space was raped
And will be again
Once you pull out
And are discarded
And forgotten

Because credit should be given where it is deserved. . .

2009-04-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

I found that blog post. Amazing what a title in a search engine can do. Don't read too deeply into my sarcasm. It just amazes me that I didn't think of that before posting the last blog.

http://edittorrent.blogspot.com/

You should check out the other posts because it's a really cool blog.

As far as that outline I was working on. . .

2009-04-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

I started to write an outline, then decided to just start typing. But thought it was important to ask some questions before really getting started. The questions came from another blog, and the title was "How to Put It Together Into One Neat Tweet." I can't remember whose blog it was, but I read it from the advise of a blog from an agent or editor or something. I read so many now, that it's all a blur. But the questions were more of a fill in the blank thing.

The protagonist:
Heroine:
Hero:

The goal/reward:

The Obstacle(s):

The antagonist:

Consequence of failure:

Motive:

Challenge to self-image:

Inciting Event:

Ticking Clock:

Important Steps Taken:

Final Reversal:

Outcome:

This gave me the basic outline of the drives behind my story. Then I started with my character profiles. Who are the people surrounding my main character? What do they look like? What are their major roles and goals in the story? Based on all of these, and how they fit in my main character's life, I'm going to spend some time really finding out the details of my main character's life and goals and drives. Then, hopefully by tomorrow, I'll get to the actual outline.

I spent all day yesterday in bed with a nasty virus, so today I'm getting up to try to be a good mommy, and when I can, I'm going back to bed to take care of me again, and hopefully in the next couple of days, I'm going to finish that outline and get started on the meat and bones of all of this effort. (I'm hoping the editing phase will bring on all of the fatty goodness.)

I hope my desire to write is inspiring others. So, in that spirit, happy writing!

My process.

2009-04-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

I hear about the music playlist that so many authors use when writing. I don't. I mean, I spend so much of my time listening to music to drown the everyday noises out that I can't listen to music when I write.

My older two kids are autistic, and the characteristics are different. My oldest is echolalic. He'll repeat words, phrases or questions even if he was answered the first time. My middle son won't say much of anything, but when he does talk, he really has something to say, and it's worth listening. Sometimes I can only function in a vacuum. I can only do dishes and cook or clean when I can focus on that, and my oldest makes it difficult, so I listen to music to tune him out. I'll sing, and dance and just move to the music so I can function, and get housework done. Not well, mind you, but it's what I do. That being said, I can't listen to music when I'm writing because I'm so used to tuning into the music that I am unable to tune out of it.

I will however, listen to remember. I can listen to a specific song that will remind me of the ex-boyfriend with a drug problem. Then I remember my state of mind, and I can relate to that in my writing even though I am now so far removed.

It's the same with scent. I can use dial liquid soap to wash my hands, and I am transported back to that first summer when I had that freedom of moving into the garage at my mom's house. I was able to do what I wanted, when I wanted, and the smell of Dial Antibacterial liquid hand soap takes me there.

The sight of things can do the same. A sea or even a small bed of California Poppies, with their happy orange faces reminds me of the drive to Lancaster when I was a teenager, and my mom had taken me cherry picking. (It's a great yearly tradition in the cherry groves.)

As for right now, I'm penciling in my outline and tomorrow I'm starting on chapter one. My outline isn't iron clad. I don't expect it to be. My characters will do what they will, and guide them as I may, they know more about what they will and will not do than I do, and we'll get there together once it's time.

A cookie.

2009-04-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned that I'm writing about my process, but wouldn't it be fair to include something I've written (aside from my blogginess)?

So, I used to write poetry. That horse died for me long ago, and I've yet to consider reviving it. But, since this is one I've loved, and never considered publishing, I thought I'd share it. It was written in the days after it happened.

Never Mind

Littleton, Colorado
A speck on a map
I had never
Bothered
To look at
Never mind.

Columbine High School
A bit of life
A bit of death
On a speck
A speck
I didn’t care for
An unknown existence
Never mind.

Numbers escape me

But who are the victims?
Who’s to blame?
Parents. Students. Teachers. The dead.
We’re all dead
To degrees that
Differ.
Why ask such questions
Never mind.

The victims
The innocent dead
Are they innocent?
Were they innocent?

Cruelty is an art form
Perfected by children
K through 12
Learned and mastered
Unrelenting through
Those years, those years
Unknown
Not understood
Wet dreams
Periods
The mystery of breasts
The opposite sex
The taunting
Insane
Never mind.

Psychotic children
Didn’t kill their peers
Depressed children did
The depressed are the best
Actors

A façade
Parents can’t see past
A façade
Students didn’t care about
Now dead
Still uncaring
Never mind.

The guns, the guns
How so acquired?
In this insidious world
The question was asked

How did these kids
Get these guns
That we spent years perfecting
That our constitution
Declares
As our God given right
They were following our lead
But they shouldn’t have
We weren’t trying to teach them to
Kill
Or anything

Never mind that
Our United States war heroes
Receive awards
For the feats two kids
Committed
Never mind that
They didn’t even have to go to
Boot camp
To learn what they
Accomplished
In one afternoon
Never mind that
They were smart enough
To pull it off and get
As much done
As they did
As we watched
As we heard

No longer concerned with
Blame
Who were the victims?

Was it the
Children and faculty
That ran away from
The children
They ignored and mocked
Was it those that are still living
Or was it the dead
The gun wielding children
Or was it those on the receiving end
That felt pain that one day
And will never feel pain again

Never mind

Maybe they are one
The daily torment ended
When we all stopped
And watched
And listened
And cried
Those two boys
Affected the lives of their country.
Those thirteen dead and those that survived
Affected the lives of the two boys.
Those of us that make up this
Society
Made a difference
By not doing a
Damned thing
When we could.
The circle is complete.
So never mind.

In hindsight it was a bit melodramatic, but it fit for the times, and really, I was all about the melodrama.

Dream journaling

2009-04-22T07:07:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to write down my dreams and it's not going so well. I mean, this weekend, remembering them was easy enough. I woke up and kept my mind on them until I got to pen and paper and jotted them down. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, not so much.

I wake up to the alarm, and think, "crap I gotta get the boys ready for school." Then I'm tortured with the slimmest tidbits of whatever I had been dreaming. For instance, I'm sure it was a great dream, but all I can remember from last night and the night before was that there was a male in it. I can't remember if he was a boy, a manling, or someone my age. I'm positive he wasn't grampa status. And I'm just as certain that it wasn't sexual. Sexual, and even lesbian dreams only happen when I'm pregnant. But still, that's all I can recall. It's frustrating.

It's not that I want my dreams to turn into the next manuscript, oh, and I think I resolved the major conflict and vampire issue, but we'll see when I start outlining in the next day or so.

The dream jotting is more a way to tap into my creativity. It's been so long since I've tried to write creatively, that I feel I need to wake or encourage that part of my brain. I imagine finding that creative nugget is like sorting through my own slush pile of craptastic half formed brilliance to get to that one bit of creative glory.

I mean, my snarky sense of humor shines from time to time, but it's mainly when I'm describing the love-hate thing I have going for my little bitch and favorite pussy. Nature is 2ish years old, and we got her as a puppy. My oldest decided that Nature was the perfect dog name. She loves playing with my pussy, who is about a year old or so. We got her as a kitten, and my husband named her Socks because she goes into this euphoric zone when she's near them, and has the greatest cat naps on the pile of unmatched socks I end up with after every wash. I think there's a sock snatcher that strikes sometime while the clothes are washing or drying, and I'm off trying to get something else done. Then again, calling them bitch, dog whore, pussy, and cat whore are about as creative as I get with them. Gee, I do need help.

But it's hard to find that again. I admit as much. I mean, when life gives you something serious to deal with, you deal, and finding the fun and humor means stepping back to do so and being Mom means it's few and far between moments when I can step back.

So that brings me back to my dreams. If I jot a dream, which are usually vivid and strange, there's a bit of my creative mind. I can sometimes explore where these dreams are heading, but only if I can remember them enough to.

The boys have left for school, so it's just the baby and I. Oh, and our zoo. My husband has a thing for reptiles. There's not enough time right now to go over how many snakes, lizards, tortoises and rats we have, but we do have a little tree frog I named Kermitt. So I'm heading back to bed, and hopefully I'll wake to more remembered dreams. Wish me luck.

Oh, and I went over my last blog posts, and decided now would be a good time to start editing before posting. I'm trying to break the two space habit.

High school

2009-04-21T20:18:00.001-07:00

I decided that since I was writing about a girl in high school, it would behoove me to peruse some of my old diaries. I thought the trip down memory lane would give me some insight into who I was and what the time meant to me. I even thought about posting some entries for kicks.

My first thoughts were "what the hell?!" I mean, I was so all over the place, calling myself naive and gullible at 16 without knowing those two would remain themes in my life for. . . well. They're still here, and we've become friends.

I remember one line where I said I believe God made man, but created woman. There was supposed to be a divine delineation there, but we're both here, right? It was full of male bashing moments. There were bits of real divinity that was heartfelt and sincere. And lots of guy watching, layered with guilt because I knew it was physical.

A few years later, I saw myself hoping to grow old and become a happy cougar, poaching the young ones from local bars.

Once I get over the silliness, I'm sure it'll be a great comedy. Or somewhat entertaining landfill fodder.

Where I'm at.

2009-04-21T14:54:00.001-07:00

I started on my manuscript. I decided the pace was too fast, so I went back for a re-working. I was almost happy with where I was at, nearing 50k words and ready to start the ending. A book in a month, flowing freely, without an outline. I thought it was easy.

And then queryday happened.

First, I opened a twitter account based on the observations of a writer on the Writer's Market community.

I happened to cotton onto queryday at the end of it. It was about nine at night, and I'm in California, so it was much later it was started, which I bet was around early a.m. on the East Coast. I stayed up until five a.m. and read all I could. It was ah-maze-zing!

I decided after all the new things I learned that I needed to do a bit more research, and completely start from scratch.

I'm at the point now where I have already decided what parts I want to keep. I know what is going to change, and where the story is going now.

What's left for me to figure out before I start to outline is the conflict (nothing I've thought about is major enough) and one of the major characters.

Originally, I wanted mine to be a vampire book. I love vampires. I always have. But he was always a side character that had to do with a much larger plot. Now that I'm clear on the direction, I don't know that his being a vampire would be relevant. Maybe, if I were able to continue onto a series, but that's well beyond the here and now of writing a stand alone book. I'd be planting seeds, not knowing if I'll ever make the flowers grow.

What's hopeful though is that I keep dreaming that I am my main character, and I keep dreaming about those around her. And waking on the tail of a dream that I still want to be a part of has given me a thirst. It's edgy and exciting.

Why I'm here.

2009-04-21T13:56:00.000-07:00

I want to write. It wasn't always a goal, but it is now.

I remember wanting to be a dietitian when I started college in 1996. By the time I got my AA in what, 2005? I ended up getting it in general education transfer studies. I'd taken so many classes based on my interests that I threw together a degree with my hodgepodge of credits. I literally took my transcripts and highlighted what I'd taken while checking out every degree that had a smattering of what I had under my belt. I had decided at that time to major in Geology.

What can I say? I love rocks! I love a good diamond, but a bit of lapis lazuli makes me just as happy.

Unfortunately, the major has requirements I just can't fulfill. I am a Mom, and a wife, and I have bad knees. I can't go hiking or stay away from home for days at a time, any time the mood strikes. Some travel is possible, but most requires a family trip.

I know, ordinarily any Mom can get away, and most Moms relish the escape. But I'm one of those Moms who tries her best to do it all, usually failing miserably. See, I have a little one going through his terrible twos, and I have two older sons. They are seven and five, and both autistic. Getting away for a day means someone, usually my husband is trying to do it all, and really we're a team. Besides, this is kinda my job as a stay at home mom, and even on vacation, there's never a vacation.

So that brings me back to writing. Whenever my family has a gathering and a speech is in order, I'm the one that is volunteered. If a form or letter needs to be written, or proofread, I'm requested. My sisters and brothers (huge family with biological, adopted, step siblings tallying up to twelve) all keep telling me I should write, and I had at one time.

I wrote poetry from the time I was in junior high because it felt good. (Back then it was junior high and not middle school.) I wrote in a journal from the time I was in the tenth grade, trying to get over a horrible break up, because for me, all of them were devastating.

But somehow when I became a wife and mother, and needed to get things out the most, I stopped. It's been about seven years and I'm trying to start again, but this time my heart is into fiction. Really, motherhood and all of it's perks were exactly what I thought they'd be. But that was back when I didn't want any of it. So now writing is an escape. This blog is to try to take you along on my journey as I try to write about what it is to become a writer. Again.