The Coffee Survived...and That's All That Matters?

So, funny story...

But first: I am super duper paranoid about falling. Whenever it's icy out, I'm on hyperalert. Why? Because: 1. Falling hurts 2. I bruise easily and 3. Falling is really really embarrassing.

I've developed a strategy of short little steps and...well, it's this whole elaborate process. And it works.

But this morning I was criticizing myself about it because, you know, I have to criticize myself about SOMETHING at all times. I was saying, "Jennifer, you are so ridiculous! You are in boots and taking little ballet steps while that freshman over there is clomping along in converse sneakers like it's July. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO FALL. Stop being so paranoid about everything."

Fast forward to this afternoon. I go to get a coffee and an egg salad sandwich. I'm wearing my boots. As I'm leaving with my coffee in one hand and sandwich in the other, I notice a truck plowing the walkway in front of me. He's reversing and slamming the truck into the snow like he's seriously got to pee but he can't until he finishes clearing this area—the area where I need to walk.

I'm thinking, Okay, he saw you. He'll wait until you cross behind him before he backs up again.

Nope. As soon as I'm behind him, I hear the beeping noise. I picture him throwing the truck into reverse with the exact same level of precision I observed moments earlier and I figure if I don't get out of the way, I'm going to get run over.

I speed up.

And then I fall. On brick sheathed in an inch of ice, which had been hidden beneath the snow.

I fall so hard that it jars my body. I fall so hard that I still have a headache twenty minutes later and it is not going away without drugs. I fall so hard I can only anticipate the exquisite bruise just now developing on my poor, mistreated right butt cheek.

I think: 1. Did anyone see me???

(A: No. Phew.)

And 2. OMG now it's like a movie and I'm on the ground and the truck is going to back up over me and kill me and that is even more embarrassing than just falling.

Of course, as you've already surmised, the truck doesn't hit me. The truck is just sitting, waiting to back up. I'm pretty sure he had to put it in park for a second so he didn't pee himself while he laughed at my pain.

(Correction: Yes, someone did see me fall.)

My sandwich is salvageable but a mess. It's not until I'm almost home, however, that I realize my coffee is perfect. It's in a flimsy cardboard container (I needed a bigger size today than my reusable mug, okay???) and I just completely wiped out, yet not a drop was spilled.

That's when I realize: My subconscious sold me out—for coffee. That's probably part of the reason why I fell so hard—rather than put my hand down to catch myself, I held onto the coffee!! In that split second when I had to make a priority decision, I put coffee before my butt, and the rest of my body for that matter.

I have to tell you, based on the pain in my skull right now, it just doesn't seem worth it. At least my mom would be proud (and will, when I recount this to her). I'm sure she'll say something like, "That's my girl."

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Funny Side Story: When I was in elementary school, we learned about how damaging caffeine can be on the body. I had observed my mom's zealous coffee drinking and was now seriously concerned for her health. I immediately went home and wrote her essentially an intervention letter begging her for the sake of her health and her family, to quit coffee altogether.

My mom read it and then she gave me The Look (my mom is famously nicknamed the "Velvet Hammer") and she said, "Jennifer. Listen: everyone has a vice." And I knew by that look and the tone of her voice that it would be best for the sake of MY health if I NEVER criticized her coffee consumption again.
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Seriously though, this jerk-face of a week can kiss my beautiful, bruised ass.

And There Was Much Rejoicing

Good morning, Reader. It's a very good morning! What, you don't believe me? Let me prove it:

1. The auction Magick for Terri raised a staggering $71, 327 for Terri, Tilly, and her family.

I won a beautiful Bordertown necklace that reads, "A true story, Elfland." I like that because I'm fixated on the idea of the true story (I don't mean what the history books tell you, I mean the real story in your heart) and also I just love the word Elfland. It makes me think of my favorite book The King of Elfland's Daughter.

Also, my cookies raised $90!!!!!!!!!! Ninety dollars for cookies! And the recipe. And some other little surprises which have not yet been accumulated. As my mom told me, "You better make it really special."

Yes, Mom, thank you. She didn't say, "Wow, that's amazing, I'm so proud of you." She was concerned that I was going to disappoint the bidder, the person who willingly paid that much for cookies.

No, my family is totally not hard on each other or ourselves. Why do you ask?

2. I actually worked on my novel yesterday! That hasn't happened in possibly three weeks. It's been really getting me down. Yesterday afternoon I did some cutting and rearranging and then I reorganized the chapter breaks just to make myself feel better.

I love when your Beta is all, "Hmm, I'm just not sure about this....could you maybe change it?"
And you turn and look at the novel and the novel is hopping up and down and going, "HEEEREEEE! Change it heerrrreeee! Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?"

The problem of course being that novels can't talk except in dreams and dreams are so easy to forget. Novel, next time just tell it to me in a dream about giant spiders. Better yet, have the spider tell me herself, all Weaver (Perdido Street Station by China Mieville) style.That will definitely get my attention.

3. ???????????
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 CUTE HEDGEHOG ATTACK

BAM! I bet you didn't see that one coming.

Whattup, Cute Hedgehog?

CH: Happy Friday, y'all.

Once Upon a Television

Soooo I have basic cable again! Most of the stuff on TV is trash though I DO have a not-so-secret fondness for QVC's hideous, sequined clothing designed for middle aged women (don't do it, ladies!) and clunky, cheap-looking jewelry.

What really fascinates me is the way they point at everything in a very particular way, draping five necklaces over their arm and then moving each necklace to make the stones glitter. It's sort of hypnotizing.

Yes, I'm a writer and I work from home. Why do you ask?

Anyway, having TV again has made me curious about upcoming shows. Do you think Once Upon a Time is going to be any good?Sabrina—that's right, I'm calling you out, girl—since you're a fan of Fables, I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the show.

Also, does anyone think it will be as awesome as I remember The 10th Kingdom being??

I'd also like to express my extreme excitement over Sarah Michelle Gellar's new show Ringer. I'm a huge Buffy fan. I have reoccuring dreams that I AM Buffy.

As I've mentioned before on this blog, I even went so far as to make a SMG scrap book back in high school and I once had a tragic hair accident while attempting to look like SMG in Buffy Season 3. You know, back when THIS was happening:

After which my mom famously said, "Honestly, Jennifer, are you TRYING to keep the boys away?"

Oh, memories.

That bleach job really did look terrible. After a nice long cry, I went back to the salon and had it fixed.

So, Class, what have we learned today? If your hairdresser is dingy and chatty, she will probably forget about you while your hair is bleaching and leave the bleach on too long. Also, don't bleach your hair when the rest of it isn't blond.

On second thought, just don't bleach it at all.

Closing Time

So. Here I am. Today is the first day since the move that I'm home alone.

*Cue dancing in my underwear montage*

Phew! That was fun. Anyway, now I have a choice—two pills, if you will. One pill will make me do more unpacking/ organizing/ cleaning. The other pill will allow me to shut everything out and write. Even without my magic charms up over the desk.

I know which pill I'm taking, because there's a short story that's been humming in my head for weeks, but I don't like to force short stories. Like my poetry, they always end up stale when forced. But last night, the story started telling itself to me. Of course it stopped talking right about when I got to the PLOT but oh well. I guess that's where the sweat and blood come in, huh?

But before I get all go-go-gadget writer on you, I wanted to share this exchange with my mom. She called the other day to check up on me. Even though she's been really sick with a fever and MIGHT have Lyme Disease from a brief hike in the woods of Vermont when my parents came to visit this summer before we moved.

Melissa pointed out how terribly ironic it would be if our mom left Connecticut, the birth place of Lyme Disease, so to speak, only to get the disease herself in Vermont.

Frowns all around. I hope she's better soon!

In the meantime, in a break in her fever, she called me. To see if I was okay. Moms are the best, right? This is how it went down:

MOM: Hi. I just called to see how you're doing.

ME: What about you? Are you okay?

MOM: Oh, I'm fine. (Coughs weakly, sounds terrible). I called to hear about you.

ME: Well...

[And this is where I started to morph into a little kid again. I began to remember all the aches and pains of the last few days. I was already planning to write a funny post about it, even. So I took a deep breath and prepared to stun her with a devastating pronouncement—the perfect metaphor for how I've been feeling about another move.]

ME: Actually, I'm so tired that I think I actually got a canker sore on the tip of my TONGUE! Isn't that crazy???

MOM: I hate when that happens.

ME: You've...you've had one before?

MOM: Oh sure.

ME: But, it hurts all the time. I didn't even know you could GET a canker sore there.

MOM: Sure you can. So how's the unpacking going?


So much for impressing my mom with my pain and suffering! I had to laugh at myself over that. Curt has heard many complaints about my canker sore and the bruises all over my body from moving and the headaches from stress, which are a little gift I like to give myself every so all of the time.

Seriously, though. A Canker sore on your tongue really hurts! Especially because you can't help but constantly run your tongue along your teeth, thereby making the canker sore hurt even more.

Anyway the Pity Party is over. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Well, actually I hope you DO stay here, it's just that it'll now be an Awesome Party of Awesomeness with admittedly weaker drinks but much better music.

Time to put on my big girl pants (re: get dressed) and write!

Hey, Mom. How's the weather?

"We're just sitting around the house, waiting to die."


This is an actual quote from my mom yesterday, when she was telling me what all the snow has been like in Connecticut. She said it in a matter-of-fact way as if this was entirely true. The boredom of being cooped up in the house has cranked her crazometer up from Charmingly Eccentric to Totally Nutty.

Needless to say, the dolls in Wooden Haven are all having new, handmade clothes made for them as we speak.

Storytelling Runs in My Family

I'm so happy to have had so many readers laugh over my pulpy Science Fiction post. I really do appreciate all of you stopping by and I hope you come back again soon.

As a thank you, I thought I'd share a special treat with all my readers: A private glimpse into my mother's dollhouse village.
That's right: village.

So take off your cloak and make yourself at home.The village is in my parents' basement. It began when Melissa and I were kids. My grandfather built us a two room dollhouse to fit our favorite rag dolls, but my mom has always been more of a doll lover than either of her daughters. Over time (there was a building boom right after Melissa and I left for college) the village began to form. Now it's an entire community complete with a meeting house, general store, school house, and tavern.


I took a bunch of pictures over Thanksgiving, because this village is truly a work of art and a labor of love. It's constantly growing and changing. It features antiques and treasures from all over the world--Arizona to Austria. My grandfather and mom have made all the structures as well as much of the furniture. My mom has sewn some of the clothes and most, if not all, of the bed linens. It's truly astounding.



And I realized, this is a story that she's telling. She knows the names of the people who live in this town. They have families and pets and jobs. I hadn't really thought of it that way before, but this is a three dimensional story as well as art and hobby.
Sometimes people don't get it. They think the whole dollhouse village thing is weird. Thankfully my mom has never let other people bother her. She doesn't care what they think and she will never apologize for creating something beautiful.I want to be like my mom when I grow up.

The Spiders Never Saw This Coming

My parents have decided to lend their support to my ongoing battle against the Insect Underground (currently carpenter ants and, of course, spiders). They sent me these plugs that supposedly vibrate your walls and keep bugs away. Here's the card my mom sent with the plugs.You are the F'n best, Mom. You really are.

Up On My Soapbox

Instead of a nice, coherent post, I'm just going to list some thoughts at random. Why? Because I had a medium Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee for lunch and nothing else and am thus totally wired. My caffeine/sugar crash is imminent.

Oh pale, stubby, caffeine-infused fingers, type quickly!

Apparently several friends of mine read this blog but do not follow it because they don't have blogger accounts. And to those friends I say: if you are going to read about liquids seeping out of my face then you should at least have the decency to comment on those posts and make fun of me properly, as good friends should.

While on the phone with me today, my mom received a package. She said, "Jesus, it's just one bra. Does it really need that entire box? I mean, how big can it be?" Which was the first thing I heard today that made me laugh. Why did I ever in my ignorant, prepubescent ballet dancing days, think I could grow up to be flat chested? It was never meant to be.

The Bra Box with coffee mug for size reference:


I read Jack Estes' Soapbox article in Publisher's Weekly. In it he says, "If you are writing to be published, if that's your goal, you're probably writing for the wrong reasons...Writing is for oneself, for one's soul."

I've heard this sentiment repeated over and over again--usually by published authors and other people whose job it is to publish books. I understand the sentiment but I don't think people are wording it properly.

I think what Estes and others mean to say (at least I HOPE) is that writers should not write with the expectation of getting published, because being published is a privilege. You can't earn it just by spending loads of time toiling at your computer, often late into the night while neglecting your loved ones.

That being said, I think writers should and in fact MUST write with the hope of being published. Publishing is how writers share their work with others. If an author doesn't have any desire to share her work, no desire to refine her story and characters in order to communicate her ideas to others, then she might as well just keep a journal. If all writers felt that way--that they were just writing in a vacuum, for themselves--there would be no need to revise. No need to improve. No need to achieve anything beyond putting raw words on the page and declaring the roast well done without ever having turned on the oven.

So industry professionals and published authors, PLEASE stop lecturing us on how we should be writing "for ourselves." If we do not write with a desire to be read, then we shouldn't be writing at all.

Welcome to the Dark Side...of Awesomeness

Okay that title was maybe slightly less than awesome. Maybe. But this story is not. First, a little back story. So my dad is big into Sci-Fi/fantasy. He read my sister and I The Hobbit when we were little. His bookshelves were stuffed with authors like Anne McCaffrey, Tad Williams, Tolkien, David Brin, and Orson Scott Card. I definitely inherited the Fantasy gene from him.

I used to stare longingly at To Green Angel Tower and make up stories to the cover art, promising myself that one day I would read it. I did and it was SO worth the wait (even in spite of that One Scene that made me seriously almost hurl the book down the aisle of the bus I was riding on at the time of The Scene. You know what I mean, Tad.)

(As if Tad Williams reads my blog. HA.)

(I just added this parenthetical aside because, you know, why not. I'm in one of those moods and this is my blog, so there's nothing you can do about it.)

Anyway, my mom tended to be more of a...non reader. When she did read a book it tended to have glossy photos of Nantucket and Tasha Tudor's house. She did have brief affairs with Margaret Truman, Rosamunde Pilcher, and Alexander McCall Smith. But she never fell in love with a genre so much as a particular writer at a particular time in her life.

As my twin sis and I approached adolescence we became slowly, as if by magic, exposed to a mysterious entity we were told was called Anime. This led us to the discovery of Sailor Moon, and many many tearful afternoons watching Serena and Darien fall in love and then lose their memories and then fall in love again. Sigh.

You couldn't get much Sailor Moon in the US back then and you can't now. So my twin and I were reduced to begging our mom to drive us to the comic books store just over the town line, where we could buy something we learned was called manga. Such was our obsession that we would buy the Japanese manga and just look at the pictures. Sad, I know. But also sort of awesome. Let it never be said that we didn't wholly embrace our obsessions.

Fast forward about fifteen years. My mom is now totally obsessed with Paranormal Romance. I might have gotten the Fantasy gene from my dad but I definitely got the Obsession gene from my mom. A couple weeks ago she started telling me what the "Fae" were. People, my book is about the fae. And just last week THIS happened:

MOM: Do you know what manga (pronounced "main-gah") is?

ME: Yeah. It's the book form of anime. It's what you used to drive us to the comic book store to buy.

MOM: Oh. (clearly not interested in this at all). Well, Sherrilyn Kenyon's books are coming out in a manga.

ME: Oh (clearly not interested in this at all).

I love that it took Paranormal Romance to introduce my mom to these things. Now there's a much higher chance that she'll actually read my novel...if I ever let her!

Thanks, Mom

I was in a relatively good mood today, I really was. I went for a walk and ignored the insistent pain in my ankle, which reminded me that it's been over two years and the doctor is still telling me not to wear cute shoes and omgIhaven'tworncuteshoesintwoyears! So I had a couple chocolates and that seemed to balance things out. And then. And then.

My mom called.

The following topics were discussed:

1. How I need to stop buying packaged meat and buy my chicken fresh at the meat counter so it doesn't have preservatives because my husband's cholesterol is high.

2. How I shouldn't let my husband go on Lipitor because it causes Alzheimer's...or probably does. They don't know for sure. Yet.

3. How my injuries aren't healed and neither are hers--despite the fact that she is thirty years older than me and has only been injured for about two weeks and I've been injured for two years straight.

4. How the economy sucks. No argument there but it's not like I needed the reminder.

5. How I can't get a job and what if I do but then they have to let someone go and I was the last one hired so...

6. How Sarah Palin is insane and the government should have had her killed because now she's in China badmouthing the President and my mom thinks probably Dick Cheney funded it because he's even crazier than Bush.

7. How my grandpa told her that his uncles lived to be over 120 therefore my grandpa is going to live forever. And so is my mom.


Then she complimented me on how positive I've been lately and hung up, leaving me in a dark, listless depression.

I checked my email and my dad said he didn't like the newest draft of my query letter as much as the last draft.

I am going to crawl into a hole with some chocolate and just pretend to disappear.

Finished: Third Pass Revisions!

Guess WHAT!? I finished my third pass revisions today! *happy dance* Sadly, confetti did not burst spontaneously out of my monitor.

I told my mom and she said "Congratulations! (pause) So what are you going to do now? Next week you won't have anything to do."

Moms. So silly.

So I started listing everything I still had to do: line edits (Commas commas everywhere, and all of them misplaced!), continue to research potential agents, and revisit the sloppy draft of my query letter. And then see what my kind, generous readers have to say.

As I was talking the excitement started to leach out of me...I mean it's only "done" at the moment until the next person finishes it and gives me feedback, pointing out more weak spots.

Oh well, I'll remind myself of that every time I start to feel anchorless and purposeless. Don't worry! It's not really done. It will never be done.

And on that note: Have a great weekend, everyone!

This Is What Happens When I Call My Mom

Me: Hi Mom, how was your weekend?

Mom: Oh good. We painted the den and set up the new desk. It's looking really nice. We haven't put up the drapes yet because the paint isn't completely dry but it's getting there.

Me: Maybe I can see it this Friday. Curt and I might stop at your house before heading to New York.

Mom: (Long, disapproving pause) You're going to New York!?!

Me: Yeah. It's Fish's birthday. We're finally going to visit him.

Mom: Jennifer. The swine flu has spread to New York. It's a pandemic.

Me: (unconcerned) Oh yeah, Melissa mentioned that to me.

Mom: The last time there was an epidemic like this it was in 1918 and it struck people in the 20-40 age bracket. Millions of people died.

Me: (joking) I might be in trouble then since I keep getting sick lately.

Mom: Millions of people could die.

Me: (thinks) That would make a great set up for a novel. Maybe I could work it into the post apocolyptic YA I've been outlining....IF I survive swine flu long enough to get published.
(says) Yeah but it's not that bad, is it?

Mom: It's spreading all over the world. People are dying. Where does Fish live?

Me: Queens.

Mom: (strangely triumphant) It's already in Queens!

Me: (thinks) Oh God! I'm going to die without ever publishing a book! I should just start gorging myself on Cadbury chocolate and Scotch right now while I still can. Maybe get back into writing poetry.

Mom: So your father and I are working on a family emergency plan.

Me: .....Huh?

Mom: Yes. We're going to give Beth your number and Melissa's so she can contact you in case anything happens to your father and me. She's just down the street so if anything happens she's close by.

Me: Ummm okay. Sure.

Long pause during which I wonder how my "just checking in" phone call turned into a dire warning of my imminent death. Also trying to figure out why my parents--definitely over 40 mind you--would need an emergency plan. I guess in case Connecticut becomes completely quarantined. Or if swine flu starts turning people into zombies, thus necesitating the quarantine. I bet Rhode Island would love that. They've been trying to get rid of Connecticut for years.

Mom: Jennifer. Do you really have to go to New York this weekend?

Me: (thinks) Christ. This is why I don't call you people anymore!!!!!

Mom: Well, don't forget to wash your hands a lot and force fluids.

Me: Yep. Thanks, Mom.

Mom: Okay, have a good night.

Me: (thinks) Oh, like I'll sleep now.
(says) You too. Good night.