Deadline Countdown and the Fine Art of Procrastination...

Okay. First off. Let's get real here. The above image is not an accurate depiction of my writing process or persona. Well, except for the overflowing wastebasket. I use a computer not a typewriter. And the last time I wore a skirt anywhere was--well, to tell you the truth I can't remember the last time I wore a skirt. I don't think I even own any skirts other than the denim ones I occasionally wear during summers. In fact, as I type this post I'm sitting in my rather cluttered office wearing a purple and neon green fuzzy fleece set that features the dwarf, Grumpy, on the pants and shirt. On my feet are hot pink and purple fuzzy slippers and I'm drinking my coffee (decaf, remember?) from a Winnie the Pooh mug. So much for the glamorous life of an author.

Authors always seem to be on a deadline. The alternative would be--well, unemployment--so most of us don't grumble about it. Mine is March 1st. It's my seventh book for Dorchester. Now generally I'm not a procrastinator. In fact, I turned in my previous six books ahead of schedule. Some well ahead of schedule. But I'm having difficulties getting the words on the pages this time around. And it's really not my fault. Honest. Let me explain and you can judge for yourselves. And bear in mind these are not 'the dog ate my homework' excuses. It's just the way it is. And the way I am.

First off, I've outed myself on this blog (and others) as a political junkie. I take the role of citizen/voter and Iowa's role in the nominating process very seriously. So, naturally, I do my homework. I check voting records and listen to candidates. That takes time. Time away from writing. I figure since I'm fortunate enough to live in a country that permits me to write and read what I like, I need to do my part to make sure we retain those rights and the many others we enjoy and often take for granted. The January 3rd Caucus came and went but then there was New Hampshire and now we have Michigan and there's South Carolina and Super Tuesday and... Okay, you get it. Note to Kathy: GET HELP!!!

Secondly, as I've also explained, I'm the HOH for my family. I have triplets who just turned eighteen. Enough said on this point.

Then there was the revision from you know where to complete on FIANCE AT HER FINGERTIPS.

Next up? A new college term. I'm what they call a 'returning student' who is attempting to beef up a resume and credentials and make some life changes and improvements. Now, the classwork is one thing. Since I'm sort of anal about this stuff, I tend to do every scrap of extra-credit available even if I don't need to. The classes, themselves, are another thing. I walked into a Technical Writing classroom the other night to find the professor looked about twelve. Most of the students were my kids' age. Or younger. Ouch. Then there's my favorite topic: winter weather. The other night the fog was so thick I couldn't see beyond the hood of my car. Tonight's forecast (and yeah, I have another class) SNOW!

Then there's life in general: illness, grocery shopping, house cleaning,(okay, quit laughing family and friends) and things that suck you in. Examples? I got side-tracked by an on-line discussion of plagiarism recently (and no, I'm not going to delve into that delicate issue here and now). I also made the mistake of picking up one of my Victoria Holt books (I wanted to be Victoria Holt when I was growing up. I still do!) and once I read one, I was hooked, so I've started reading them all again.

There are tons of things that tempt me away from my writing lately. And I'm usually so disciplined. Yesterday 'Saint Kathy' on my right shoulder had a heart to heart with me. 'Kathy,' St. Kathy said, 'you are not going to go to bed until you have written 30 new pages. No arguments and no procrastinations permitted. Deal with it.' So, I grumbled a bit (okay, more than a bit) and then thought, 'I'll show her.' And I did. I wrote two new chapters (and it wasn't crap!) and finished before the stroke of midnight.

And today? Well, today is a different story. You see, my daughter brought me her black work pants to have a button sewed on. It took me half an hour to find a suitable button, another half hour to find my sewing kit, another ten minutes to quit sneezing from the dust accumulated on the sewing box, (Dotty Domestic, I ain't) and another ten minutes to sew the button on. Then, of course, I had to blog.

And now? Now I have this strong craving for an angel food cake with funfetti frosting.

Think St. Kathy will cut me a break today?

I didn't think so either. I can't wait until this book is done and Sinner Kathy can come out to play.

What's at the top of your 'Tempt Me' list?

~Bullet Hole Bacus~

Back Then, I Had to Walk Ten Miles to School, In The Snow, Uphill Both Ways...

First off - Congratulations Ellie! You won the purse prize! Please contact me at leslie@leslielangtry.com and I'll ship it off to you!

During break, we took our kids to Chicago for a few days with friends and their kids to see the Star Wars exhibit at the Museum of Science & Industry, the Sears Tower, etc. It was blisteringly cold in the Windy City, but a good time was had by all. Well, the kids had a good time. The adults were sleep-deprived and sore, but that's just splitting hairs, really.

Anyway, one of the exhibits in the Sears Tower (the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere, thank you very much) really caught my eye. You can see from the photo above (click on it to make it larger): It says, "Interactive toys of 1793," and it features a stick, some frogs (badly photoshopped in, by the way) and a leaf or two.

Of course, the four worldly children, aged 7 to 9 were NOT impressed. They couldn't figure out why I was even taking a picture of it. They just went back to using my cell phone to call their friends and using their digital cameras to take pictures of the skyline. But I stood there and stared at that for several minutes. In fact, I was there so long my husband thought I was having a stroke - but that's beside the point.

On the way home, as my children texted each other from their Nintendo DS (while sitting next to each other) and talked about playing Guitar Hero III when they got home, it really hit me that A)My kids didn't appreciate history or B) I appreciated it a little too much.

Now, I didn't grow up with sticks and frogs as my only interactive toys (although there was that one time with the grasshopper that kept me amused for say, oh, minutes). We had Simon, Intellivision and Atari, Baby Alive (a very, creepy Terminator version where the metal skull seemed to press against the rubber skin and make mechanical gnashing sounds while she ate), banana-seat bicycles, etc. But toys were still dramatically different.

My mom's gonna read this and tell me how she just had a jumprope, and I'll bet you someone will e-mail me about being excited to get an orange and a lard sandwhich for Christmas, but I'm trying to put this all into perspective.

Of course toys change with technology and things are different than they were 200+ years ago. But all I can think about is some child back then getting as much joy out of that stick as my daughter got out of her Hannah Montana stage - complete with real light shows and music. It just made me wonder how my kids would fare in a third world country where they still play with those kinds of things. Then I realized that I would also have to be in that third world country with them and that kind of cancelled the idea out.

I don't really have any answers - just observations at this point. I think I'm gonna start dvr-ing National Geographic Channel's Tribal Life and forcing the kids ala-Clockwork Orange-style to watch it.

What do you think?

"The Assassin"

What's Been Neddling Me

Last Saturday was my son’s 18th birthday. And at 12:01 a.m., he gave himself a gift…one of which that I have to admit, I wasn’t all too thrilled about. Now, you have to know, he’s my baby . . . all 200 pound of his six feet two inches, even down to his size-13 men’s shoe. So yeah, I know he’s not really a baby. He’s eighteen, a big boy.

A big boy when it comes to size, but not so big when it comes to needles. Seriously, I was holding his hand just a few months ago when he got a tetanus shot. “Is this going to hurt?” he asked me. “I hate shots, mama,” he said and blinked his scared, big brown eyes at me. It didn’t matter that he was big, my maternal instinct took hold and I squeezed his hand and wished I could take the shot for him. Yep, he hates needles. Which is why, I was just a bit surprised that he got a tattoo.

Now, he told me he wanted one. He’s been telling me he wanted one for years and I simple rolled my eyes and said, “Not until you’re eighteen, buster.”

Who knew eighteen would come around so soon? Who knew I wouldn’t be any more prepared to see my baby get a piece of art permanently placed on his body? Who knew that at eighteen, he’d still think it was a good idea? Not me. If I had, I would have said, “Not until your sixty, buster!”

And when he told me he was going to get one a few days before his birthday, I just laughed. I reminded him that getting a tattoo could be very painful, (yeah, I might have exaggerated a bit) that sharp needles were involved, and that it could kill him…hepatitis C, and all, and then I blew the whole idea off. Hey…mama wasn’t there to hold his hand…no way would he go through with it, right?

Wrong.

Now, it’s not that I’m anti-tattoo, but this is my baby. I can close my eyes and still see him running naked as a jay bird across the bedroom, laughing as I chased him down to put a diaper on him I can see every inch of his little, squirming body, every bit of sweet-smelling baby-powdered skin, unmarked, un-inked, and oh so perfect.

Just this morning, he was walking from the shower without a shirt. I couldn’t help but stare at his forearm with an eagle, part of a flag, and the word “Freedom” written underneath. Oh, he’d already shown it to me, and it’s not hideous or anything, and a T-shirt will cover it up, but seeing it unexpectedly for the first time took me by surprise.

I realize that part of my dislike of the piece of body art is that I had to come face to face with the realization that my baby was really on the threshold of becoming a man. (Not man enough to get a tetanus shot, mind you, but man enough to get a tattoo.) And right then, he even looked like a man, tall, strong, his tattoo accentuating his bicep muscles, and a certain “I’m eighteen” gleam in his eyes.

As I walked away a bit disgruntled, I remembered what my mother told me when I first asked to get my ears pierced. “If God wanted you to wear pierced earrings you would have been born with holes in your ears.”

My answer back was, “Mom, that argument doesn’t hold water, because I could say that if God wanted me to wear clothes, I wouldn’t have been born naked.”

Mom was so over protective, so ol’ fashioned. But of course, this whole tattoo thing is different. Completely, different. Right?

Okay…dang it, maybe it’s not so different. But don’t you think if that he had to get a tattoo, he could have at least had the words, “I love my mama,” put on his arm?

So…here’s my question to you. How do you guys feel about tattoos? Any of my readers have tattoos? Do you like them on your men? Any parenting advice for a mama who’s having a hard time letting go of her baby?

Crime Scene Christie

More Stories You Just Can't Make Up

First of all, I have to start today's post with a huge apology - I COMPLETELY forgot to post last Monday. My only excuse is that with all the holiday scheduling, I didn't even realize what day it was. In fact, I didn't realize I hadn't posted until Friday - so, sorry!

My brother (the volunteer fireman, for those who don't know) always gives me some interesting stories because he lives in a small town and spends a lot of time talking to police and paramedics. Here's a doozy from a couple of weeks ago.

A guy and his wife get in a huge fight. She decides to leave with the kids. In this couple's case, that means by foot. Apparently, she only got so far then decided to go back home. The husband decided to pull out his shotgun and fire off a few at her as she was coming up the driveway. The police were called and a four hour standoff ensued during which everyone well, stood. Then the worst thing possible happened - the husband ran out of beer. Well, there's only one thing left to do when you've been shooting at your wife, the cops have surrounded your trailer and you're out of beer - start shooting at the cops.

So the husband starts taking shots at the cop and finally, one of the cops gets him in the gut. The paramedic comes over as soon as the cops secure the husband's gun and inspects the husband who is laying half in/half out of the doorway. He looks at the husband's stomach and sees a single small shot. He asks the huband if it hurts and he says a little so the paramedic figures that it was a 22 pistol shot or something along those lines. Then the husband complains about his back and when he sits up the paramedic realizes that a huge hunk of the man's back is fairly gone. He yells for the proper equipment then looks over at the group of cops and says "what was he shot with?" To which one of the good 'ole boys with a badge steps up and says "that there would be a 308 deer rifle, boy."

I still have no idea if that is police issue or not, but it would be a great thing to call the department and ask.

So what do you think - if you read this in fiction could you suspend disbelief and think people would be this stupid????? Or happy about shooting a man with a deer rifle?

Deadly DeLeon

Who Knew?

I've racked my brain all week trying to come up with an interesting topic.

Yeah...I got nothing. 'Cept a wicked case of blogger's block.

So I've compiled a list (directly from the pages of my journal) of 12 random things I learned last year for your edification and enlightenment (caution! segue) :

01.23.07 It's enlightenment. I've always articulated "enlightment." I am wrong.

02.28.07 Restaurant is the most commonly misspelled word in search engines. Restaurant of all words. How enlightning. (:-D

03.15.07 Nelson Mandela is dead. Seriously?

04.30.07 Kryptonite is REAL!

05.27.07 Adding milk to tea negates the healthy benefits. Bye bye chai!

06.01.07 The hotter it is the more difficult it is for a plane to take off. Such a thing to learn on a plane. When it's hot. Hooray!

07.04.07 Presidential election years are always leap years. How did I not know this?

08.08.07 Wait a minute: next year we will have an 08.08.08. And, hey! We've done so with January through July so far. Cool!*

09.03.07 In Ohio it is illegal to catch mice without a hunting license.

10.22.07 If all the Smarties eaten in one year were laid end to end they would wrap around the Earth two and half times.

11.22.07 It takes a gallon of oil to make a fur coat! Nothing like politics to serve with your turkey.

12.25.07 Bill Gates does not own an iPod. 'Sokay. I'm willing to bet Steve Jobs doesn't use Windows!

*Okay, technically I knew this but it just hit me this year. I'm slow on the uptake.

What new stuff did y'all learn last year?

Let's Welcome Nina Bangs

Omigod! I prostrate myself in abject apology for not getting this in on time. My excuse? Uh, I thought I was supposed to blog on the sixth. But when I visited the blog, I checked out the schedule, and there I was, down for the fifth. And yes, Christie did remind me. My bad. I’m truly sorry, everyone.

So what to talk about. I’ve been avoiding message boards because of a deadline that doesn’t allow for things like eating, sleeping, or going online. But I happened to take a look at a discussion going on about which was more important: talent or persistence. Interesting topic.

Obviously you have to have a modicum of talent in order to write something that has a chance of being bought and published. That said, I think it comes down to persistence and more than a little luck. I wrote for over ten years before making my first sale. During that time, I saw very talented writers give up or publish one book and then disappear from the scene.

What does it take to keep going? I’d like to say that I write only for the love of writing. The purity of that motive brings tears to my eyes. Unfortunately, it would be a lie. I write out of stubbornness, desperation, a strong competitive nature, and a desire to tell stories that are different. That doesn’t make me sound like a very nice person, does it?

First, stubbornness. I invested years of hard work in the writing process. Up until 2003, I taught fulltime. I got up each morning at 3:30 AM so that I could write before getting ready for work. After I came home from school, ate, and then graded papers, I didn’t have a creative thought in my head. I was in bed by about nine every night so that I could get up the next morning. So when thoughts of quitting teased me (and they teased me a lot), I’d remember all those hours invested in my writing and decide that, hell no, I wasn’t quitting.

Desperation is a terrible thing. Other than teaching and my writing, I had no other marketable skills. I knew I wanted to retire, but I’d have a tough time living well on just my teacher’s retirement. And I did want to live well, even though I’ve heard that some of the new organic cat foods are quite tasty. If I didn’t succeed with my writing, I’d have to supplement my income by subbing. I enjoyed teaching children, but I’d had enough. That meant I had to make my writing pay.

I’m nothing if not competitive. When I was in my teens, my best friend and I would walk down the street, and I’d count how many guys looked at her first. I know, dumb. I brought some of that same attitude (only more mature, I hope) to my writing. I’ve belonged to the same critique group for over fifteen years. We’ve given each other tough love when it came to critiquing each other’s work, been there to cheer each other on, and offered shoulders to cry on when rejections rolled in. Kimberly Raye sold first. She’d written a wonderful paranormal romance which she sold to the Shadows line, and I was thrilled for her. But I wanted that same euphoric feeling that she was experiencing, so I tried a little harder. Even now, when I read an awesome book, it reinvigorates my own determination to write the best stories I can.

And of course, I love writing stories. Plain and simple. I suppose it all comes down to that truth. If I didn’t want to create stories that would resonate with readers, I could find other things to be stubborn, desperate, and competitive about.
Thanks a bunch, Christie, for inviting me to contribute to your blog, even if I showed up a little late.

2008 is looking up!

Recap of this week's search for Mr. Right:
Last weekend I met The Artist on the Motorcycle for a movie and drinks. We saw Sweeny Todd (Great , movie, loved it!), then went to a little neighborhood nightclub for drinks. Mr. A on M was adorable. Great smile, gorgeous blue eyes, total gentleman. Amazing, huh? I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and his big reveal that he was gay, married or both. But, it turns out he was just a nice normal guy, and we had a nice normal evening. (Maybe my New Year really is looking up!) I’ll admit, there weren’t fireworks of chemistry between us, but there’s definitely a great friendship brewing, if nothing else.

Mr. Coffee (a.k.a last Friday’s date where Aunt Flo decided to come along) did finally call me. (Happy dance!) The down side is we haven’t been able to find a good time for a second, or as he put it, “real” date yet. I’m hopeful next week our schedules will finally match up. There was mention of a sunset over the ocean and dinner. (Tre romantique!) We had a lot in common and he’s definitely in the running for fireworks chemistry. Will let you know how things progress.
(P.S. Mr. Coffee, if you’re reading this, I have no plans for tonight. Hint, hint.)

In the meantime, (switching gears here), my writing efforts of 2008 are off to a bang! My short story “Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit” (available in the Dreams and Desires charity anthology) is up for a Predators and Editors award for best Short Story. This is a unique contest in that anyone can be nominated, but it takes reader votes to win. That's where you come in. If any of you would like to vote for "Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit", I'd be eternally grateful. Here's the link to vote:

http://www.critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml

Just scroll down and click the little button next to "Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit", then enter your name and email address (they will toss the addy after the contest, so no spam) and hit "submit". They'll send you an confirmation email and all you have to do is click the link and, voila, you've voted for me!

And, for those of you that haven't read it yet, here's a quick excerpt of the story:

Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit

“You’re going to leave the car idling, then we loop around on Pico and take La Cienega straight down to the ten. No stopping,” I said.

Quinn nodded, her eyes shinning as her hot pink bangs bobbed up and down in the seat beside me.

“Here, Carrie.” Lynette reached her arm between the console and handed me a .22. I checked the chamber. Fully loaded.

Lynnie handed another gun to Quinn, who twirled hers like a wild west sharpshooter, almost dropping it on the upholstered seat of Lynnie's mini van.

“Ready, ladies?” Quinn asked.

Lynnie and I nodded as one.

Quinn pulled her Marilyn Monroe mask on. Lynette and I followed suit, becoming Mamie Van Doren and Jayne Mansfield. My vision instantly blurred as I tried to see out the tiny plastic eye holes.

“Just like we rehearsed,” Quinn instructed. “They’ll be so distracted, they won’t even know what hit them.”

“Right,” I said. Lynette nodded.

Then we all stripped down to the matching black and pink polka dotted bikinis we’d purchased at Wal-Mart the day before. We tore open the mini van doors, streaking across the parking lot of the Los Angeles Mutual Bank on Fairfax and Pico, guns drawn.

Quinn was the first to hit the front doors. She plowed in, her gun stuck out in front of her like an Al Pacino movie.

“Everybody on the ground, hands behind you heads! Nobody moves, and nobody gets hurt. I’m f***ing serious!” She waved her gun in the direction of a guy in a Jerry Garcia tie and Dockers who was making a move for his cell phone. He froze, dropping to the floor along with the other people in line on their lunch break.

Lynette came in a close second behind Quinn, aiming her gun at the security guard by the door who looked like he’d just started shaving yesterday. His wide eyed gaze bounced between Lynette's boobs, barely contained by the triangles of polka dotted fabric, and her gun, leveled at his chest, not sure if he should be scared or turned on.

I came in behind Lynette, making my way across the floor of stunned people to the third teller window on the left. I set my plastic, flowered beach tote on the counter and pulled it open.

The man behind the counter stared at me, his jaw stuck in the open position, eyes looking from the tote to my generous size C chest, the one thing I’d been happy to inherit from my mother.

“Hi, there” I said. “Empty the drawer into my bag, don’t even think of pushing your panic button, and keep your hands where I can see them. And,” I added as an afterthought, “stop staring at my tits.”

Score one for the Bombshell Bandits.

***

Thanks for the votes, everyone, and I’ll let you know the results as soon as I do!

~Gemma “Trigger Happy” Halliday