Subdued Intrinsic

Personal Note: I like broccoli better than any other veggie. I know, I know, I'm a radical. Also, people seem to either really love my hair or absolutely hate it, and it's kind of surprising, who's on which side of the fence.

Top of the list, give blood. You have to weigh at least one-hundred-and-ten pounds. I've never weighed that outside of being pregnant.

But just after that? Take grown up medications for anything, especially anything of the cold/allergy/sinus variety. Why? Because they make me super-loopy. If you've been one of those extremely kind of helpful people to read past drafts of the first Dionadir novel you likely know there's a scene in which Joss gets the flu hardcore, and you'll remember her mentioning something about looking for the Meaning of Life chillin' in the fridge, a side-effect of her cold medicine high. That detail is based in fact, my own life around the time I was sixteen, actually*. I'd contracted Mono (as had our entire marching band--we'd all shared the same water fountain at practices and our drum major had spread the love around, so to speak) and was having a lot of trouble sleeping because I felt so awful. The doctor I saw put me on ten milligrams of Benedryl before bed every night. Yeah . . . that was an interesting two weeks. I might as well have been dropping acid every night (something I've not actually done, but I'm guessing here) for all the psychedelic shenanigans my brain ran me through. I even remembered to write down some of my thoughts. I think my letters to my boyfriend-at-the-time, Michael, and my friends were probably hilarious and riddled with hidden meanings only a drugged version of me could interpret now.

But you want to know something even sillier? In between bouts of insanely hard sleeping (I go out like you would not believe, or maybe I just don't believe it because normally I'm the lightest of sleepers) I get this . . . I don't know, giggly burst of productive energy (hence this blog post, you know?) and STUFF GETS DONE, BUCKO!

Earlier today I finally sat myself down--after having index carded every scene in the book last night--and physically put them in a really good, sense-making, tension-holding, heart-tugging order. And now I just have to surgery those suckers into a book worth NOT putting down, because my cold-medicined brain is shooting in fourteen different directions and all of them are made of PURE WIN . . .

At least until I pass out again, dead to the world as far as everything else is concerned.

But first! I must conquer a kitchen!

*Though I still maintain my best friend describing her behavior on Robitussin and/or sleep deprivation is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Patrick Swayze and a space so thin a piece of paper wouldn't fit in it were mentioned.

Personal Note(s): Remember when I said Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You" was a terrible message? Yeah, well, Pink has come out with one, too. SERIOUSLY? "Please Don't Leave Me"? That doesn't even sound like a Pink song.

I have a monthly book allowance, no joke. My husband has learned the best way to keep me from spending a ton of money on books in random spurts is to give me a $25 free pass that I get to use when I go do the monthly grocery shopping. It's kind of the same logic as not sending a starving woman out to pick up milk and eggs so she doesn't come back from Winn Dixie with a Hershey's chocolate creme pie and three kinds of chips. This time around I lucked out even more as I got to combine my $25 with a Mother's Day gift card from Book-A-Million. Got five books and a really cool package of The Wizard of Oz magnetic bookmarks. I like Glinda best; she knows her glitter. Also, Also, I'm having a tuna melt for lunch, and I will enjoy it like WHOA.

So, let me preface by saying that I've had at least two blog post subjects in my head for a week or so and no time to let them out, and on top of that Nathanael talked me into trying half a Sudafed tablet to kill off yet another cold. NOT. A. GOOD. IDEA. One could safely call him a necrophiliac because he loves me, and I am currently the Walking Dead. Someone cue The Cranberries' "Zombie". My brain staying on-topic isn't going well.

And with that, TO THE POST! Which is basically an expansion on something I said a post or two ago about criticism, also known as 'feedback' if you want to put a smiley-face on it, which you should, because despite how much hearing something icky about your baby hurts, it also helps. Like the little old witch says in Neverending Story: It has to hurt if it's to heal.

The truth is you love your characters and your story and your 'everything about it' too much to be truly objective which is why you need other people to do it for you . . . and HADES! I just remembered where I was really going with this so let's back up a second.

A while back I had a conversation with a non-writer friend about another mutual writer friend and Friend A's (the non-writer) confusion over just what's expected of her as a test reader for Friend B (the writer). Obviously, being a writer as well, and one who has at least a bit of experience and education on Friend B when it comes to the subject, I was in a good place to help Friend A figure out her role when Friend B brought her a new project and then sat there at her knee, waiting with baited breath for Friend A to finish reading and TELL HER ALL ABOUT IT. Of course, the problem really didn't lie in Friend A being clueless or afraid of discouraging Friend B, but rather in Friend B's reactions to feedback, AKA 'the poison we must all develop a natural resistance to so we can get the hades on with business'. If Friend A said she liked the work Friend B wanted to know why and if Friend A pointed out a plot hole or other discrepancy Friend B went off in a fury trying to explain what Friend A should have gotten without a problem. As you can see, Friend A is basically screwed. Rock, allow me to introduce you to A Hard Place, and please, disregard that smudgy place between you there; that's just Friend A.

Anyone will tell you when I first got this idea in my brain to write a book and finally let someone see it that I was totally defensive about the whole thing. My good (also-writerly) friend Michelle (go click the Belletrinsic link left of here and say hello) can TESTIFY about how badly I reacted to her first tentative, very polite suggestion that maybe my 'voice' in early drafts of Silver were a little too formal, too precise for a young adult/teen novel. To be brief, I threw a hissy fit. Oh, how far I have evolved since that low of low points! Brothers and sisters! I say unto you revere and court those among you who will lend you an honest word or two about your manuscript, because buddy, you need it. It's been a year since Michelle risked her life to point out a serious weakness in the book and I 'went off like a devil in a church' about it.

Getting back with our 'poison' illustration, think of it like an immunization: You know it's going to sting like hell, and you know it'll even keep aching for a day or so after, but if it keeps you from going out into the big bad world where the real Big Boys and Girls play with nothing to stop them from infecting you (i.e. tearing your work to shreds and outright rejection) you've got to man up, remember to relax that muscle in your arm so it hurts less, and let the medicine do its job.

And after all that, you'll be strong enough.


I have a Happy Bunny pin with this on my purse. You can find things like it here: http://happybunny.orbitearthstores.com/ttp/Mean-sissy-Happy-Bunny-Basic-Tee/products_id/57.html