Oh, my eyes!

Yes, I have had surgery on my eyelid, again. This makes the fourth time I've gone under the knife for two different styes. And this time the doc had to cut out part of the eyelid, though he said he left the eyelashes along. Please let him be telling the truth.

This is the first time I've ever had stitches, though. First time ever. Yep, in 28 years I've never had to be sewn up.

Don't get me wrong. I've had numerous bizarre accidents and injuries, but I've technically* never broken a bone or gotten stitches. If you don't believe me about the strange nature of my injuries, let me share a few choice examples with you:

1…. Eight years ago I took a study abroad trip over to London for 2 months, and I was so worried that I would hurt myself while far away from my family. (I tend to be somewhat of a hypochondriac, though generally won't admit it.) The gods were smiling on me during those months, but the moment I got back, they decided to have a little fun with me. A week after my trip, the same day I met my new roommates for the summer, we decided to have a friendly game of basketball in the swimming pool with some guys we all knew. Well, things got a little out of hand. Since I'm so small (5'1" to be exact) the guys would pick me up and throw me across the pool to get me out of the game. Things were raucous but harmless, that is until my roommate went up for a rebound and brought her elbow down . . . on my nose. It broke cleanly and left my nose completely crooked. There wasn't any blood, but boy did that sucker hurt. But as I always do when injured, I started laughing hysterically over how stupid I was to get hurt in such a bizarre way. They all thought I was faking it, until they saw my nose, that is. I had surgery a week later to fix it, but for several months afterward it hurt to blow my nose or even breathe. The reason it didn't bleed was because it broke right where the cartilage and the bone meet. The doctor said he'd never seen anyone with a break like that before.


2…. Well, a week after my broken nose, I was driving home from an appointment with the ENT (nose doctor) just before he was going to operate on it (it was such an odd break he decided he should knock me out since he might have had to cut it open to fix it). Just as I was headed down the street toward home, a car pulled out in front of me and I barreled into it. That's what I think what happened because I can't remember the 30 seconds before the accident happened. All I can remember was the airbag exploding into my face, smashing into my already broken nose. (This was before it got fixed, or otherwise I would have been one angry woman.) My dad's car, which I was driving at the time, was completely totaled even though I had only been driving 30 mph. At least it wasn't on the freeway where a head-on accident like that would have killed me. After that week, some of my friends were ready to stick me in a padded room to keep me from injuring myself even more.


3…. Continuing in the vein of broken bones, I was in a college apartment one night walking toward my bed when I smashed my middle toe in the cinder block holding up my roommate's bed. (Remember using cinder blocks to prop up the bed so more stuff could be stashed beneath? Great for storage, bad for toes.) I nearly cried it was so painful. Actually, I think my eyes did tear up. That little piggy hurt for weeks afterward, and I walked funny for a while until it stopped throbbing so much.


4…. Okay, one more broken bone story and then I'll move on to something else. When I was 10, my siblings and I were playing roller hockey out in the driveway. (Mighty Ducks was popular then, and roller hockey was all the rage in my neighborhood.) Sad to say, wheels on my feet plus my ability to injure myself are not a good combination. While standing still, my feet somehow flew out from under me and I landed, flat on my tush, on the hard cement driveway. Again, I laughed hysterically while my family looked at me like I was some strange child. All I can remember after that is how painful it was to lie in bed. For two whole weeks it was incredibly painful even to lie down, let alone sit. I still can't do sit ups to this day, and I'm sure my butt bone (tail bone, whatever) is crooked.

5…. Later on at the end of my childhood as I was trying so hard to become a woman, I decided that I needed to shave my legs. I didn't ask my mom because I was certain she would tell me no, so I went into the bathroom when no one else was around and proceeded to shave my legs. No one had ever told me that you need to use soap or shaving cream. A few minutes later, with large strips of skin shaved off, my mom came into the bathroom and saw my bleeding legs. She gently showed me the proper way to shave, after cleaning me up of course, and didn't care that I wanted to learn even though I was only 11 or 12 at the time. Now, I can't remember why I ever wanted to start shaving since it has become the bane of my morning showers.


6…. I have very tender skin, and even the slightest bump on an arm or leg will turn into a bruise, so sometimes while I'm getting into the shower I look down and see mysterious bruises that magically appear overnight. Most of the time I can't even remember how I got them.

7…. Many of those mysterious bruises probably come from my lack of coordination, or should I say my poor depth perception. I run into things all the time, especially when I'm groggy in the morning. After I've just woken up, I'm usually pretty wobbly and run into the walls, tables, chairs, whatever happens to be nearby. I also tend to smack my hip into tables and desks while walking past because I misjudge how far I am from the offending items. People at work find it rather funny when I yell because I've run into something.

8…. Several years ago I served as a church missionary in Montreal for a year and a half. The day before I left, I got a stye on my lower eyelid, but I was so preoccupied with moving and such that I didn't do much for it. Well, that sucker stayed on my eyelid, sometimes swelling up, sometimes subsiding, for the entire year and a half. Getting to the doctor in Canada was a pain, so I never thought it important enough to have one look at my eye. By the time I got home a year and a half, it was sore and rock hard. I went to the doctor and the pus was so hard he had to perform surgery on it twice to finally get rid of it.

9…. And I'll end with one of the funniest. When I was born, the soft spot on top of my head never really got hard. After two years, my parents took me to the doctor, who thought he would have to put a metal plate in my head to protect my poor little brain. After what my family attributes to a miracle, it finally did harden two weeks before I was to go in for surgery. So, thankfully, I do not set off metal detectors everywhere I go. But it would have been really great for head-butting people. Um, never mind.

*The nose, toe, and tailbone aren't normal bones you consider when speaking of broken bones. Never broken an arm or leg, though I always wanted a cast when I was a kid so people could sign it. I thought it a sign of coolness. (I really shouldn't say that because I've probably cursed myself now.)

Another milestone

I've done it, I've reached another milestone in my life. This one has the number "28" marked on it.

Normally when I think of milestones, I think of big accomplishments and extraordinary events. I haven't had many in this past year. But I still think it a great thing to celebrate the milestone of reaching another birthday, another year, older and wiser with a touch more humility and introspection.

It has been a year of moderate successes and even more modest failures. Of dealing with blunt rejection and coming to understand that nothing is ever easy that is worth the effort.

I've tasted the sweet (and savory) fruits of my labors as I've reaped the vegetables from a first-ever garden. I've made new friends while letting old friends go on their way.

I've learned how to become a writer through sweat and tears, and I've put away the notion that I must get it perfect on the first try. I've learned that dedication can push through obstacles—and writer's block.

I've also learned to forgive as well as mend a broken heart.

Those are wonderful milestones to be celebrated, but there are many more I want to honor next year.

I want to relearn how to cherish the small moments, and to worry more about finding time to appreciate life than forcing myself to get everything done right now.

I want to find balance in my life while remembering that passion is good—in moderation. I want to eat well and be healthy without obsessing over the fact that my pants are still tighter than I would wish them.

I want to push toward my goals without being felled by rejection and failure. I want to learn to love again for the sake of loving, no questions asked or nothing needed in return.

In essence, I want to be happy with who I am while constantly striving to improve.

But, on this day of milestones, I must also remember to thank those who've helped me get here. You are too numerous to mention, but I will keep all of you in my heart this day, and for the next 364.

All I ask is that you love me even when I'm a brat and forgive my foibles even when I have a hard time forgiving myself. Be there for me when I need you.

In return, I promise to love a little more each day and forget about myself to think of you a tad more. I'll remember you in my prayers and be better at telling you why I appreciate and love you.

In essence, I want to welcome you into my life and my heart without reservation.

So as I head into 28 I'll try to keep in mind that there is much to be grateful for from 27, but even more to look forward to in 28. Especially if you'll be there beside me.

Flashy fiction

Well, I got bored tonight, and as it often happens when I'm bored, I turned to the Internet to entertain me. This night it was Twitter that saved the evening with a fun little exercise in very, very flash fiction.

In essence, we told stories using 140 characters or less, per Twitter. I know it's not a new thing, but I find it a great skill to write succinctly.

The most famous of the succinct fiction would have to be Hemingway's six-word story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

It is rather intriguing to put a story into so few words. Here are a few that we came up with tonight:

The plane landed, no one to greet her. Walking the tarmac, she knew what it was to be alone for the first time and for the rest of her life. —me

Cool, crisp and sweetly exotic. One satisfying bite and she had brought damnation upon the world. —me

You were just bitten by a laptop?" He asked.."I guess you'll have to go home and crash now." So I did, and lost my memory." —HECurtis_author

She threw the spatula, glaring as It quivered where it stuck in the wall. Tears dripped as she searched the empty cupboards —Cassidy_McKay

We held hands for the first time while staring into the abyss. You kissed my cheek whispering, “This is how the world ends.” —jimmyjacobson

What are your very short stories?


Edit: Our next very flash fiction day will be this Saturday, April 25. Sharpen your wits and join us at the #tinyfic hashtag on Twitter. Need help joining Twitter? Leave me a comment and I'll give you a tutorial.

Finished (sort of)

Well, I finished the first draft of Jessamine in three and a half weeks. Woo. I had planned a big blog post about how I'd done it, yada yada yada. But I'm so tired after being sick this week, it's all I can do to write. I ended at 48,000 words, which is just under what I was aiming for. But with the revisions, I'll be filling out a lot of places that I skimmed over while writing the first draft. It should be a decent length for a YA novel, though.

So now it's onto the sequel, which I'm calling Lady Jasmine for want of a better name. It'll work for now. I'm about 4,000 words in, and I want to keep writing. That's always a good thing, in my book. That means I'll be signing off here and get back to writing. Let's see if I can get this one onto the computer screen in even less time. (I did take about a week off as a break, so no breaks equals more productivity.)

Here we go . . .

Worlds collide

In our new-fangled, sparkly world of instant communication, lines tend to blur. I'm starting to notice that blurring in my own life as I participate in several forms of social networking.

During the daytime, I'm a nonfiction book editor. I like my job; it's fulfilling taking someone's words and polishing them up a little brighter and making beautiful books. I don't Twitter or Facebook during the day so I can focus on the work at hand. (With the minor exception of checking messages during lunch, and maybe responding to a few.)

At night, I write YA fiction books, and it's something I'm very passionate about. Often I spend my evening hours writing, editing, and networking with other writers and publishing professionals online.

But I also have a social life (sort of). I have friends, roommates, and family, all of whom I keep up with on Facebook because it's easy to see what people are doing and to send a quick note saying hi. (I also talk to them in real time, but for the purpose of this discussion, I do communicate with them frequently online.)

And now that it's known that I'm an editor on Twitter, I am starting to get a following interested in knowing about the publishing world as well.

My problem? I use the same social networking sites to communicate with these four different groups of people. This is where the blurring comes in. Because I want my friends and family to find me, I use my real name, and since co-workers and authors I edit know my name, they find me the same way.

For a time I used a pseudonym for my writing to keep these different aspects of my life separate. But now that I'm querying agents and seeking to have my writing published, I decided to use my real name for this as well. This is where the blurring becomes more of a tangled web.

This morning, another aspect of my lines crossed as a well-known querying website posted a list with my name and company on it. (I'm not upset, just rather surprised that they found that information.) I'd tried to keep where I worked private because I was worried about the additional blurring. Since it is now out of my control, I'll have to make sure that those lines don't compete with others.

In some ways it's fun to have all the aspects of my life in a few places that are easy for me to check, but it can be a big headache in other ways. When I tweet, I do so more about my personal life and my writing.

How do I juggle all these things without upsetting one group or another? I'm not sure. I'm testing these potentially tempestuous waters for the first time, as are many. There are some very vocal writers who don't like knowing anything personal about the agents or editors they follow on Twitter; they're following to get industry information and don't want to hear that they have personal lives as well.

Lines are crossing, blurring, and twisting with all these new social media. It can be tough making sure that everyone is pleased, but you're not going to be able to do it perfectly all the time. People will get upset. And if I've upset anyone with the blurring of my own lines, I do apologize. But at this point, I'm going to keep moving forward because I see a lot of benefit from participating in social media.

That said, I don't tweet specifics about work; I don't really tweet about work at all. If I do post anything related to editing, it will be knowledge I've learned without giving specific examples. My authors trust me not to divulge information about them or their work, and I'm not going to betray that trust. (And if any of the authors I work with are worried after reading this post, please call or email me and we can discuss.)

I will tweet about my personal life, though I try to keep the mundane out of it as much as possible. Knowing me, though, some of it is likely to slip in.

And my writing will be a good part of what I share, especially as I go through the same process of querying and writing and revising as so many other authors out there.

So this is my way of telling my Twitter followers and anyone I know personally that I don't share information that is not mine to share. You needn't worry. And if you ever feel like I've crossed one of these lines, let me know. I'd rather clear the air than let anything languish.

(And just so everyone knows, I'm writing this at home, sick. I was pondering it a lot since I've nothing else to do of at the moment, but I don't want anyone to think I'm neglecting work.)

Delights of getting old

I'm bored, tired, and not in the mood to work on my book, so that means it's time for a free write. The name of this game is I write until I say something interesting, though that sometimes never happens. Either way, it keeps my brain occupied and keeps me from falling asleep at 7 pm. Must wait until at least 8 so as not to be thought an old woman.

Speaking of old, I'm feeling rather so at the moment. Several times this week I've had conversations with co-workers about how as we hit around 28, women's bodies change so much that we get tired faster, can't stay up and party all night like we used to, gain weight quicker and lose it slower, and a host of other fun, aging-related things.

Well, my birthday is in a week and a half. And yes, I will be 28. It is the beginning of the end, I fear, and I'm not even married yet. How in the world will I have stamina to chase after children in my old age? That's if I get married in time to have them.

Really, though. That's why women have historically had children when they're younger: because they have enough energy to chase naked toddlers around the house and keep babies from painting the walls with their poop. I can't believe that I'll have it in me, especially if I'm still working. How do women do it while retaining their sanity?

It's a rite of passage, being 28. People generally think of 30 in that way, but I really think this year my body will start falling apart even more than it has. Once I hit that day, I'll be needing a wheelchair to get around because my knees will finally give out. I've already had a crown on one tooth, so the rest are surely going to fall out soon. And my back. Oy, my back!

Maybe they had it right, back in the day, when people were having kids in their teens and becoming grandparents in their thirties. By the time you hit forty, well, you're pretty much heading for the grave.

Oh, I'll keep plugging along, but I think this may be the moment when I realize that I let my youth slip away. Late nights. Parties. Traveling the world. Oh, where did the time go? Sigh.

Well, if you don't hear from me in the next few days, check my room because I may have died. It's probably cancer. Or a seizure. That happens a lot when you get old.

You can bury me out back next to my peas that are sprouting in my garden. I figure I'll make good fertilizer. And for the headstone, you can write anything so long as it's not a sappy, boring poem. I don't know if I could stand rotting for eternity under something like that. It would make me more bitter than I already am.

(Most of the above is in jest. Mostly. Oh, how I make myself giggle.)

A needed break

So I went camping this weekend and was fully prepared to write my life away with laptop and modes of charging said laptop and notebooks in case said laptop decided it didn't want to charge. But when I got there, I had no desire to write. Instead, I was content to sit around the fire and talk with my family and enjoy being outside.

I have two thoughts on what this could mean: a) I needed a short break from the frenzied pace I've been writing the past few weeks, or b) I've lost my mojo/writing juices/stamina.

Now it very well could be a combination of the two, but I'm leaning more toward option a. The reason for that is sometimes when I get excited about a project, I tend to go full-speed-ahead no matter what else may be in the way. I tend to be a hyper-focused person who likes to charge in and get things done. When I get an itch to write, I don't like it when people interrupt that. It really annoys me, in fact.

But life has a way of interrupting my plans, and that usually involves me wearing myself out to the point where I get sick. I've been feeling really worn out since January when I started getting stomach bugs and the full-fledged flu, but still I pressed on with my various writing projects. Even when I started getting sick a few weeks ago, I kept at my writing efforts.

This single-mindedness can get things done, but it can also be a detriment to my already-precarious health. Besides, I was getting stuck as to what my characters were to do immediately, anyway, so a little time and distance can help move things along.

I'm definitely going to jump back into writing starting tomorrow, but I think writers in general can benefit from taking a break and completely forgetting what the latest writing project is. We get so wrapped up in our imaginary worlds, we sometimes forget that there is a real one surrounding us that needs our attention as well.

So, the point of all this is that I'm pretty sure I haven't lost anything other than time in my little break and have instead gained some sanity and needed distance and perspective on the whole project.

Adventure stories: guys vs. gals

I was thinking this morning as I lay in bed that everyone loves a good adventure story. Most of the time when people think of adventure, danger, and fighting in stories, they think of the the male dominated ones with war, blood, and violence. But if you take a look at some of the popular stories for women, there is a definite trend toward action and adventure, but with a slightly different motive.

I'm a big fan of girls kicking butt movies. One prime example: Tomb Raider. I love seeing strong female characters who can hold their own and even outwit their male counterparts. Alias and Buffy were popular shows for this reason as well. Women, who have been rendered powerless for so long in most cultures around the world, are fighting back, and the stereotypical female character needing saving is the first one to go.

Recent books are rife with strong female leads who must save themselves because the men are too clueless to do it for them. Some of my favorite teen romance stories involve heroines who are thrust into the spotlight and action because the man isn't there to save them. A few examples: Goose Girl, by Shannon Hale, and Crown Duel, by Sherwood Smith. Both girls take an active role in saving themselves and their kingdoms because the men can't figure out how to do it. Yes, there is the obvious element of romance in these stories, but the key is that the women find a compatible match with an equally strong man and don't settle for any brawny man who comes along to rescue them.

There is another trend in literature and movies that actually makes me nervous. That of the spineless heroine who can't do anything without her man to rescue her, a la Twilight. Bella is the epitome of the whiny, annoying, spineless female character. But, if you actually made it to the fourth book, you'll notice that Bella actually does grow a spine in addition to those fangs. So even a wimpy female lead learns how to fight back, though too late for many women to care because of the first three nausea inducing books.

The main difference between action focused on men and that focused on women is the need for romance. Men want sex, women want to be swept off their feet (but that doesn't necessarily mean rescued). While men will be content to watch Angelina Jolie kick some man's butt because she's wearing a skin-tight outfit, women want to see her find her perfect match—after she's done a little butt-kicking.

That's a really long ramble, but my point is that women like adventure as much as men. A lot less blood and guts, for sure, but there's a part of us that wants the men to let us join them in their world-saving efforts and kick a little trash of our own. Besides, a little action is great fodder for romantic entanglements, and who couldn't use a few of those.

Vampirical writing?

I had an interesting discussion the other day with a friend who is pregnant, and the topic turned to how some babies seem to require so much energy from their mothers while still in the womb. She mentioned the last Twilight book, and how it was like a vampire baby, taking all the life of the mother.

Now, she's very excited to have a child, and it was just an interesting and funny conversation, but I can't help thinking of how that relates to writing, and mine in particular.

For the past two weeks I've been writing feverishly. My newest book has taken on its own life and consumed me. I can't seem to do anything else at night or on the weekends but write. Any other activity feels like I'm wasting time when I could be writing.

This very well could be my ability to hyperfocus on just about anything. I really do have a one-track mind when it comes to something I'm passionate about. But I wonder if other writers ever experience this. Does writing your book, or thinking of plot, or brainstorming characters ever become so all-consuming that it's almost like the booking is sucking the life out of you so that it can live?

That's what I'm experiencing now, and though draining, it is exhilarating. I love every minute that I can sit, unfettered and unbothered, and write until the words dry up for the night. But then I go to bed and can't sleep because I'm thinking about what happens next, what turmoils my characters are facing. I'm living vicariously through them for a time, but it really does feel like I'm living a life much more exciting than my own.

I'm almost sad for when that time will end, but I've a few weeks yet before the story is completed and I start into the revision process. But as a writer, I know I'll jump right back into another story when the time is right, ready to give my life over to another mewling book desperate for its creators attention.

Guilty

Yes, I am guilty. I am very mean to my characters. Unbelievably mean to them. First I make them fall in love when they don't want to, and then I break their hearts. How cruel is that?

The funny thing is, I'm feeling really guilty about it as well. I think with all the intense writing I've done these past week and a half (33,000 words and 125 pages in that time), I've gotten so emotionally involved with the characters. Too involved, actually, to the point where it makes me cry to think of what I'm going to do to them.

I really am a sap. I bawled while writing certain scenes in my last book, and even cried again while revising. Now I'm crying just thinking about what I'm going to do to the new characters.

Really, it makes me think of the movie Stranger than Fiction. I can completely understand the writer agonizing over killing her characters after realizing that one of them is real. My characters feel real to me. They become like myself, probably because they are a part of me.

Am I alone in this? Do any of you writers get so attached to your characters that it wounds your heart to break theirs?

Maybe I'm too emotional, but I'm thinking that it probably is a benefit as a writer. When I become part of the story, live the story, it makes it better in the end. At least I think so.

So I'm off to cry some more as I think of all the horrible tricks I'm about to play on my characters. But, being the soft-hearted person I am, I can remind myself that it will all work out well for them in the end. They may hate me, but I can live with that.