Right where I left off...

Recently I've been inspired by some of my blogging buddies' playful posts. (Blogging buddies...that sounds sort of dirty) While I find it beyond encouraging to learn of other author's harrowing journeys to publication, or discover where the latest, eager agent is hiding out, I also find that wacky, nonsensical posts are a much needed distraction to this emotionally draining process.

That said, my creative cohorts, I'd like to challenge you to a little game. I'm going to start a story, then you're going to pick up right where I left off. Second blog responder will pick up where the first responder left off and so on...

So, lock the kids in the basement, tell your boss you're on a conference call, order pizza instead of making dinner. Whatever it takes to get your silly juices flowing, DO IT, because the game starts...NOW!

"2:52 a.m.... just like clockwork," Roger mumbled, refilling the Starbuck's mug Joyce had given him for Christmas. He'd never seen anything like it before. When it happened the second time he thought it was just a fluke, but it had been five nights in a row now. This chick was up to something.

He added a generous helping of sugar to his house blend before returning to his secured location behind the living room curtains. This was a show he did not want to miss.

BUT I LIKE IT HERE!

I like my comfort zone. A LOT.

It's a safe, cozy place where each morning begins with a steaming bowl of Quaker Weight Control maple & brown sugar instant oatmeal (add sliced strawberries and a fistful of black or blueberries for good measure) topped off with a lightly-freckled banana to be eaten in hand-torn pieces, not ripped into like a caveman with a drumstick, and a glass of Cranberry/Blueberry Ocean Spray 100% juice on the side.

What my comfort zone is NOT, is a dormitory for a discontented seventeen-year-old angel trying to earn her wings.

And THAT, my blogging friends, is the problem. My current WIP is so far out of my comfort zone I can actually feel my pulse quicken the very moment I sit down at the computer. Don't get me wrong--I'm wickedly excited about this story, but how on earth do you venture from the safety of your contemporary comfort zone into the scary world of make believe?
I decided to ask a few of my favorite TV personalities how they would adapt to such a predicament. Here's what they had to say:


MONICA GELLER:

"Adapt? Pffffff. Well, that's a stupid question. Adapt? Adapt to what? I'm flexible. I don't need to adapt to anything. In fact...I'm so adaptable I'm down right breezy! All the time. Adapt. Adapt. That's me! No comfort zones here. I'm open to the world, baby! I'm...hang on...Dammit, Rachel! The dish towels won't fold themselves into 3x3" squares. God, woman were you raised by wolves?! I'm sorry...where were we?"


SHELDON COOPER: "That's doctor Sheldon Cooper, and your question is riddled with so many external variants, there's no way to hypothesize how one might respond. For example, if I were to ask you if in 1943 one Oswald Avery would have had the intellectual wherewithal to determine that destruction of deoxyribonucleic acid would hinder transformation of the virtulent pneumonia without the precursory work of the great Frederick Griffith...well, I think you can see where this is heading.



MARLEY & LINDSAY

Marley: "Why would you ask that?

Lindsay: "Yeah, why would you ask that? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Marley: "Did someone say I wasn't adaptable? Someone did. Who said it? Was it Christine?"

Lindsay: "I bet it was. It was Christine. I'll rip her head off and shove it in my bag."

Marley: "That's a cute bag."

Lindsay: "Thank you. The nanny picked it up."

Marley: "Cinco finger discount?"

Lindsay: "Shut up." (uncomfortable silence). "Yeah. She found a little Coach shop in Tijuana. Me gusta Lupe!"

Marley: "I'm sorry Rookie Riter, you asked me something but I was so distracted by your hideous sweater that I forgot what it was."

Lindsay: "Yeah. Your sweater is ugly."

Marley: "You have that sweater."

DRAT! It looks like the Rookie Riter still needs advice. Got any???

TOP 10 LIST

10 THINGS THAT ARE SLIGHTLY MORE AWFUL THAN BEING REJECTED. AGAIN.

#10) Tofu

#9) Picking up dog poop

#8) Root canals (to be fair, nitrious and a TV on the ceiling help a lot)

#7) The scale moving in the wrong direction

#6) The cancellation of THE NEW ADVENTURES OF OLD CHRISTINE

#5) $4.29 a gallon

#4) Trying to get this damn blog to post in list form

#3) Mosquito bites

#2) Tampax commercials (seriously...horseback riding in white shorts?!)

And, wait for it...wait for it...

#1) Banging your head against the wall

Encouragement Rocks!

"Hello. My name is Bethany and I'm a reject."

"Hello Bethany."

As writers hoping to get published, and actually earn money with all the crack-pot ideas circulating through our brains, we all have those days when we're ready to call it quits. Throw in the towel. Kick it to the curb. Say, "Sayonara, Sweetheart." SO...WHY DON'T WE?

The answer is simple: ENCOURAGEMENT.

Without our mothers' reassurance that we've been talented since birth, or our QT friends reminding us that Stephen King's CARRIE was rejected 30 times before finally being published (That's true. I googled.) we'd just end up wandering through the creative Walmart of life. No direction. No hope. Just pent up frustration and the underlying fear that any day we'll be captured on camera, wearing an ill-fitting thong, while digging through the newest batch of must-have, roll-back items.

So here's to all the encouraging people in our lives: To the moms and dads, the sisters and co-workers. To Internet pals, the I.T. guy who fixed your computer, and the guy on the corner who smiled at just the right moment. To your husband, your kids, your second cousin, and Charlie Sheen (because he could probably use a shout out right now). We say THANK YOU! Thank you for encouraging us to keep going--it means the world! (I also hate Walmart and brutally mock and judge the people in those emails.)

This post was inspired by the note my brilliant and incredibly loving eight-year-old daughter left on edge of the bath tub last night. She knows I have a dream. She knows it's a big one. And she believes, wholeheartedly, it will come true! Thanks, Gracie.

THE IDEA MACHINE

"My ideas usually come not at my desk but in the midst of living." -Anais Nin

I have a lot of hair. A LOT. It's blond, and curly, and really, really big. (If Julia Roberts in PRETTY WOMAN and Sammy Hagar had a baby--it'd be me)

Anyway, due to sheer follicle volume, I have developed a dangerously, co-dependent relationship with my hair dryer. The Revlon Ion Pro Stylist. (Available at Target for $20.99--5% discount with your red card!!) While a lot of women dread the mere thought of fifteen minutes of upside down, dry heat, arm-tiring activity at six o'clock in the morning, I actually look forward to it! It turns out I do my best thinking under 1875 watts of ear burning heat!

Don't get me wrong, some pretty crappy ideas are generated under the guidance of my hand-held electric god too, but all in all, I think I've discovered my personal idea machine.

So...what's yours?

Rejection Letters, Curtis Stone and the Dangers of Satellite Radio

Rejection Letters, Hot Australian Chefs and Commercial Free Radio.

What do they have in common ? Nothing. Except that apparently each one of them is in my life for good.

Let's break them down one item at a time.

#1. THE LETTER: A rejection letter is the steaming turd on every hopeful writer's doorstep.

Yesterday I was riding high on the four outstanding fulls/three partials of SUMMER ON THE SHORT BUS, when I received notification that I had a new email. An email sent to my writing only email address! WAHOO! I clicked on the message, doing my best to ignore my inner pessimist Marge who says, "it's another rejection, stupid!" and eagerly await for what is bound to be another agent ready to represent me.

And then it happens...

My throat thickens, my shoulders sag to my elbows and I unknowingly mutter a curse word under my breath.

"Dear Author, please forgive the impersonal nature of this email..."

Ugh! Sigh. DRAT!

As if throwing a rejection turd in my face isn't bad enough, now you can't even call me by name when you do it? Is there no intern in your bustling, boutique agency who can be tasked with the job of inserting BETHANY into this email?

I know, I know, relax RookieRiter. Rejection is part of life. I get it. I understand that preferences in this business are as varied as Kirstie Allie's Crispy Kreme order, and that it only takes one "yes" to make it happen, but it doesn't make the initial sting any less painful.

I'm feeling sort of depressed now, so let's move on.

#2: CURTIS STONE:We were first introduced to Curtis as an occasional guest chef on The Biggest Loser, then got to know him much better during his stint on Celebrity Apprentice. Curtis is impossibly attractive, comfortably arrogant, and has that sexy, down-under accent that makes grown women rip off their undies and throw them on stage. (Okay...maybe not in a kitchen setting, but I'd totally rip my apron strings for him). Lately I've been enjoying him on the new NBC reality show, AMERICA'S NEXT GREAT RESTAURANT, but this morning, while watching last night's TOP CHEF finale, learned that he's going to be the host of the new season TOP CHEF MASTERS--yum, yum, more Curtis for me!

So, if you aren't familiar with Curtis beyond this blog, just tune into NBC, or any of their affiliates, because it seems this Aussie is here to stay and he's taking over America one high-definition flat screen at a time!

And finally,

#3: Satellite Radio

When I bought my first, brand new car three years ago, I assumed the one-year, free subscription to Sirius radio that came along with my new car payment would be little more than a novelty. Perhaps some light comedy while running errands on a busy weekend--some Sinatra for a rainy day. Yeah, right! I'm hooked like a street corner junkie, and yesterday I hit rock bottom.

I was tuned into the all 90's channel. Not the alternative 90's channel I usually listen to, but the top 40 type station. The variety is good--Aerosmith, U2, Stone Temple Pilots, Depeche Mode--it's the Souplantation of music for those of us who graduated high school in the 90's. Anyway, one minute I'm singing along to that Sugar Ray song, "I just wanna fly," looking like a regular schmo navigating the congested San Diego freeway system, and the next I'm bustin' moves like the very Anglo-Dutch/German girl I am. The very moment "Ice, Ice, Baby," pumped through the Bose speakers I knew I'd reached a very low, sad place in my life.

Driving with the windows down, sunroof open, and enough blond hair to cover a small village, earns me more attention on my daily commute than I care to discuss--add some white girl rhythm and the memories of Andy Wulgemuth's keg party my junior year to the mix and you've got a recipe for disaster--or at the very least, a life-long subscriber to satellite radio.

Like them or not, these things are in my life for the long-haul. I guess I should just embrace them and move on. I believe I'll start with Curtis...

Christmas in March

Ho, ho, ho. Santa's coming early this year!

Had you told me two years ago I would be obsessed with a fictitious world where a gang of sexy, tormented vampires protect the streets from white-haired, baby-powder smelling Lessers so the rest of the vampire world could live in harmony, I'd have told you to put down your crack pipe and stop smoking! But I can't do that because I am obsessed. I am, dammit! I AM OBSESSED! (insert diabolical laugh and raised brow now).

Mark my words: Tuesday, March 29, 2011, sick day records will be shattered throughout the workplace. This is going to be bigger than Swine Flu, H1N1 and SARS combined. 25-45 year old women across the country will be couching it with "headaches" and "upset tummy's" next Tuesday--all because we can't wait to see what the Brotherhood is up to this time.

Am I pathetic? Yeah.

Am I addicted? Definitely.

Is this why we read? TOTALLY!

Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself:

www.jrward.com