Okay, so I’m all boo-hoo right now, not seriously so, mind you, but kinda overwhelmed, as per my particular course, and trying to get everything done without forgetting something, and then kinda defeated about how hard some things are.

But–in the midst of this, I am writing, and today I managed to write over 1,000 words, despite wanting to smother myself with a pillow. Yay!

I am more than halfway done with this book, and it’s proving to be a different process than previously: I am well aware that I am writing a ‘rough draft,’ and that one character, in particular, really needs to be drawn better. I can picture him in my head, but so far he’s a dud on page. A foxy dud, but a dud nonetheless.

I do wish I could just finish this thing so I could go back and fix it; I decided not to stop midway because I wasn’t sure how it will end, and I wanted to find that out first before I shaped that character. (Liam. His name is Liam. And he’s still an asshat, despite my trying to mold him into a hero. THAT, my friends, is how I roll).

But I can’t just snap my fingers and have it done, I have another 40,000 words to write (I have 45, 614 as of right this very minute), which is at least 40 days of writing, if I were to be so lucky as to have another good writing day like today. For the next 40 days.

Ruh-roh. Initial waves of overwhelming ‘I can never do it’ roiling up in gut now. Okay. Put that aside now.

As I was saying, once I finish this, I can go back and fix it. I like editing, actually, it’s fun to shape your words and laugh at your own cleverness or identify a problem, as long as you go and fix it.

So, yeah. Like a phoenix from the ashes of my despair, a brightly colored bird is rising. Or something.

Megan

If I were a termite, the whole ‘boring’ thing would take another context entirely.
*
But since I am not, I just have to say that all I am is boring. I am writing still, most every day, and am now officially past the halfway mark with the Work In Progress.

And the laundry has been done, and meals been made, and son managed, etc., blah, etc.

I wish I could be all ‘I discovered this fabulous thing I have to share!’ and ‘I lost five pounds’ (oh, HOW MUCH do I wish that?!?), only I’ve discovered nothing. No, wait–I have discovered one thing:

If you take nonfat plain yogurt, the cheap kind, and line a strainer with a paper towel and strain said yogurt for about 12 hours, give or take, you will have a great approximation of Greek yogurt, which costs at least three times as much as cheap nonfat plain.

Whew. I feel better for having shared.

More later.

*Photo from KristieJ

“Cherry, you coming?” Liam had turned the car around and pulled up to the end of the parking lot.

“Yeah, hold up.” I glanced at William. “You need a ride?”

He shook his head with a rueful grin on his face. “I—uh, I’ve got someone inside who’s gonna drive me home.”

I bet you do, I wanted to say, but that would be too snarky, given the moment. I just nodded back at him and scooted down the sidewalk towards the car. Danielle was in the back seat.

“You need anything, sweetheart?” I asked after I had buckled myself in.

“No. Just wanna go home. Shouldn’t have had that tequila.”

Liam laughed. “Tequila’s the big leagues, sport, you shoulda stuck to beer.”

I held myself back from squirming, reminded that I had drunk scotch with him that first night. This wasn’t about me.

“Thanks for what you did back there, by the way,” Danielle replied.

Liam took his hand off the steering wheel and waved in a dismissive gesture. “It was nothing. Guy’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, I did kinda lead him on.” A very uncomfortable silence ensued. Long enough to remind me that I had done the same thing. I hoped I was the only one thinking that.

“Runs in the family,” Liam muttered, hopefully low enough so Dani wouldn’t hear.

“Ha! I heard that,” she said from the back seat. “Good one.”

Great. As though my life weren’t enough of a farce already, my daughter and Liam were chummy enough to share those kinds of jokes. Perfect. At least her hearing was excellent, right?

Liam looked quickly at me. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“We still need to talk,” he said, still looking at me. And he was driving, for Pete’s sake.

“I’m back here, guys, if you don’t remember,” Danielle said.

Liam met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Right. Which is why we’re gonna talk later, just me and your mom, okay, sport?” Thank goodness he then returned his gaze to the road.

“Grown-ups have all the fun,” she said, slumping into her seat.

So I realized last night, when I was writing, that I was close to halfway done on the current book. Which is cool, because I’d like to have it done, and somewhat polished, before heading to RWA’s National Conference in July.

Which is another way of saying, ‘hey, my life is boring, and when I’m not doing laundry/urging the Distractable Boy to put socks on/drinking wine on the rare occasions I see my spouse, I am writing, and not writing blog entries.’

So my silence here is good, in one aspect. If things change, you’ll be the first to hear about it.

Tomorrow is the day I post at the Riskies, but thanks to the wonder of time-stamping, that post is already done! So hie on over there on Friday, anytime after 9am EST–it’s http://riskyregencies.blogspot.com/, if you forgot–and see what I wrote. If you want.

In other news, let’s see: The overwhelming malaise is lifted, somewhat, and I’ve been writing most every day, although never more than 500 words at a time. Still and all, it’s progress.

I am heading out to Nashville for this year’s RWA National. Woot! By then, I want to:

a) finish this ms. Only 60K words more to go (30K done)

b) lose at least five pounds and

c) write three chapters of the crazysexycool urban fantasy paranormal I’ve got in my head.

And if I put it down here, and check in with myself, I might be able to do it*.

So there. And for reward? No MI-5/other Netflix historical hotties movies for me unless I write. Good goal, right?

*Or if Daniel Craig threatened to shoot me with his big gun. Rowr!

1. I am no longer sick. The Spouse seems to have caught it, though.

2. I am trying to write when I have a spare hour, like this one, so I’ll still not be so chatty here. Plus my life is as dull as it’s always been, so no news there.

3. I have 143 pages done of the current WIP. Yay! Likely heading towards 400 pps.

4. I like hockey now, thanks to HDTV and the Olympics. I cannot find a good pic of Ryan Miller, but I thought he was amazing.

5. Next weekend I might get to see the Delightful Phone Friend; seeing the Picky Vegetarian at the end of the month in Portland. SO EXCITED.

6. Still waiting to hear on a submission. Many digits crossed.

7. Okay, off to write. More later.

. . . only not here. Worked on the Evil Synopsis yesterday, and will be writing later today. I’m setting modest goals for myself, 1000 words a day, which is doable in my land.

When my life gets at all interesting, you’ll be the first to know.

I did some writing yesterday and today; here is some of it:

What was she talking on about? Oh, her kid. He should try to pay attention, but it was loud in the bar and he kept staring at her mouth to try to gauge what she was saying, which just distracted him.
She had a great mouth. Her lips were full and lush, and she bit them when she was thinking, which was starting to drive him crazy. He liked women who bit, too.

“Where in Europe is she going?” He took a sip of his drink. The bartender had given him a healthy pour, he’d better watch himself if he was going to be good for anything later on tonight.

He sure as hell hoped there’d be something later on tonight, he didn’t want to waste his time if he wasn’t going to get laid.

He coulda done that with Katharine. What made him think she was a good idea? Her ass was flat, and she had the worst taste in music. Fucking Ben Harper, wimpy hippie crap.

“All over,” she said, her hands spread in a broad gesture. “She’s not sure, she speaks a little bit of Spanish, so she was going to go to Spain for sure, and then she might just wander.”

“It sounds fun. The closest I’ve come to Spain is ‘Spanish Bombs.’”

“London Calling is the best record The Clash ever did.” She said that without a bit of hesitation, not like when she was quizzing him about why he was talking to her. Interesting.

“No way,” he said, putting his drink down. “Give ‘Em Enough Rope.” He grinned when her eyes widened in shock.’

“Are you kidding me? Sure, it’s a great record, but it’s nothing compared London Calling. Hello, ‘Guns of Brixton?’ ‘Lost In The Supermarket?’ Train In Vain?’” The last title was said in an outraged shriek that made him laugh.

“Okay, fair enough. I might give you that. So—what do you say, The Jam or the The Clash?”

She snorted. “The Jam, of course.”

“Okay, first test passed.” He thought for a minute. “Your first show?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you really want me to admit it? That’d just show how old I am.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. When I was 16, I snuck into Echo and the Bunnymen’s first American show.”

“Good taste back then.” I bet she’ll taste good now, too, he thought.

“So what about you? What was your first show?” She raised her glass to her mouth and waited for his answer, as though challenging him. Nobody challenged him. Especially about music. He liked it. Sort of.

“Uh—”

“Lemme guess. Pearl Jam?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, geez.” Her voice rose higher. “Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

“Go lower.”

Her eyes got even wider. “Worse than the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Good thing you already bought me a drink.” She took a sip, and set the glass down.

“Smash Mouth.”

She blinked, then flung her head back and laughed. “I’m amazed you’d admit that.”

He shrugged, although he wished he felt as nonchalant inside. “Why not? I was—let’s see, I must have been about 16 too. My older brother was going, and said there’d be some girls there.”

“Did you meet any?”

He glanced at her. “No, actually. The opening band was one of those screechy art-rock bands, they were a noisier wanna be Talking Heads, and I was hooked. I went backstage and met them.”

“How was that?” She planted her chin on her hands. “Was it all you’d hoped for?”

“Sort of.” He narrowed his eyes, remembering. “The lead singer was totally fucked up, he was so drunk he could barely stand, but the other band members, especially the guitarist, was really nice. Especially to a kid. They could’ve been all kinds of snotty.”

“Although they were opening for Smash Mouth . . .” she let her voice trail off.

“Yeah. There was that.” That night was the first time he’d felt like maybe there would be more to his life than being the not-as-good younger brother of a high school football hero. Finally he knew more than Patrick. Patrick, who’d blown out his knee his senior year and was living in Braintree in Massachusetts. Selling fucking cars. With a wife he hated, and two kids he adored.

That’s enough of reminiscing, Liam, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t allow himself to reveal too much to her—to any woman. Not to mention any man.

Liking being a loner didn’t mean he had to like being alone, at least for certain activities.

He let his eyes drift over her while she took a sip from her scotch and soda.

So I have opened the Dreaded Synopsis (no longer titled the Stupid Synopsis, now it’s hateful and dreaded), and have worked through Act 1, as my sharp-eyed bud Liz Maverick said I had written. I need to pump up my hero to make him less immediately hateful, but I thought about that this morning after school drop-off, and I think I have a way to make him more likeable without removing his alphaness.

Which is to say it’s nowhere near done, but at least I am trying.

Wah.

I have successfully begun work on the synopsis. Not sure if I actually have something with this story (despite the 100+ pages–oy!), but at least I am into it.

A funny thing that I bet a lot of writers, particularly currently unpubbed ones have, is guilt over reading. Which is really, really dumb. And I have it.

I read a lot. A lot. I don’t watch much TV, I have a few spare minutes here and there, and I like reading; hence, I am usually plowing through some book or another. Yesterday, I finished two books, one was The Watchmen, which was too intense and 10 year-old intriguing to read often (he cannot WAIT to read it. And he must), and a paranormal that was a blast to go through.

And at the end of the day, I felt bad that I hadn’t written. Which, as stated before, is dumb. It’s not like the time I spent eating lunch and reading a book would have been able to be time spent writing–I eat in like 7 minutes, that’s barely enough time to open the document. Or when my son was doing homework, and I had to be in the room to make sure he didn’t meander off into doing something else. Couldn’t write then.

Still feel guilty. Stupid.

And here’s Richard in his ghastly shirt (for Kwana, who asked, and others who want to be horrified):