Have I mentioned the Synopsis From Hell?

Well.

The Alpha Sparkle Dog read pages from the current Work in Progress (which implies that it’s in progress, which is a crock according to my own work habits), and said, gently, that perhaps a synopsis would be useful.

At which point–and this was about a month ago–I froze in terror.

I can’t write a synopsis. But I have to. Irresistible Force, meet Immovable Object.

So I started writing one yesterday. I’ve got three paragraphs. Three more paragraphs than I’ve managed to achieve in the past month. Yay? Sorta?

Anyhoo, I think this book is good, and I’d like to finish writing it. But in order to finish, I think I need a synopsis. There’s that Force/Object conundrum again.

And now off to futz around doing Important Things for the Spouse. Great way to procrastinate.

Megan

PS: CindyS, the Armitage thing is when he’s on Season 7 of MI-5, which is available from Netflix at the end of this month. He plays a spy who’s been captive in Russia for eight years, hence the tats and general bad attitude. Rowr.

So the 10 Year-Old is back in school (Him: “all teachers hate boys.” Me: “All 10 year-old boys make sweeping generalizations.” Him: “Hmmph.”), and I am back in the groove, only it’s cooler, and there are fewer beach days.

I am still loving my bike, I rode 10 miles in the park today and stopped off at the library to pick up a book on cycling (oh! the irony!) for the Spouse. And I am hoping to cobble together some sort of Goal Action Plan, so I don’t waste my days with banal blog posts and such–oh, well, oops.

So there you go. Not much, but it’s something. Oh, and I took a walk to pick the Son up from a playdate and listened to Richard Armitage read Georgette Heyer’s Sylvester. A walk never went by so fast, le swoon. I like that he does little voices for the characters, made me giggle.

Okay, first off, is my entire life RUN BY LYRICS? Because I thought ‘oh, I’m gonna write about something serious, way more substantive than what I usually blather about’ and the first thing that pops into my head is that stupid Jermaine Jackson song! Which I then had to google to discover it was Jermaine who sung it in the first place (not that lazy ass Tito), and now it’s stuck in my head.

But anyway.

Today I wrote, nearly 2000 words, on what I am grandly calling the women’s fiction contemporary. Although it’s really contemporary romance, only it was FOUR–count ‘em four–points of view, so it’s broader than straight contemp, I think. And I am trying to figure out the overriding conflict, and it’s just–the conflict is just LIFE and living it, and my characters muddling through. I need to throw in some extra drama, too, so I am trying to make it about money, which is always a motivating factor.

And the new Park Slope Mom book has just come out, to much excitement, optioned by Sarah Jessica Parker and stuff, and I keep wondering if there are any legs to my Mothering Heights book, which has a similar–albeit not as wide in scope–premise, or if that book is just self-indulgent Megan being funny without an overriding conflict (sense a theme?). My agent likes the book, but doesn’t rep those kinds of books. Not sure what the next step is. Or maybe there is no next step.

Of course I am torn in a gazillion directions, because there’s this shiny historical project that is so much FUN to write, not like this 100+ page thing with no O.C. (shorthand for overriding conflict, you know) with which I am currently wrestling. But the 100+ page thing is good, I think, and funny, and if it works into something bigger, could be a real book.

Blecch. And, as usual, I have to go resume being Mom and save the writer angst until later. Or keep it inside my head where it is normally.

Geez, this is a long post for me, huh? I must be really agitated.

Thanks for letting me share.

I reached my immediate goal of 25,000 words (25,077, actually), and sent it off to the Delightful Phone Friend, who has promised to give me her honest opinion.

Before that, I put in the obligatory appearance at the school picnic, where I stood with other parents and chatted. A lot of chatting. It only felt like I was an inappropriate oddball a few times, thank goodness, and then the Son had a playdate and I tried to catch up on freelance work–the paying job.

And the So Much More Sociable Than I, Although He Wouldn’t Admit It, Not For A Second Spouse is going out tonight, so I’ll be ironing shirts and watching Wire in the Blood. There might be a beer or two involved also.

It’s been a weird day, ’cause I spent way too much time at the computer, and have that vaguely dissatisfied computer feeling when you’ve internet od’ed.

But I did reach the goal. Tomorrow I break ground on the Big, Fun Paranormal Idea, which I have been dying to do (not literally–it’s not that kind of paranormal. I leave the deathy-gruesome stuff to people who can do it much better than I).

Just ate a handful of almonds–why? It’s not like I was hungry. If we could all just manage our emotional eating, we’d be a lot thinner. Or I would, at least.

Anyhoo, I wrote A WHOLE BUNCH today (I unplugged from the internetz!) and this is some of what I did. It makes me laugh. Dunno if it’s any good, but I guess that’s a question for another day.

“The black? With what top?”

Becca frowned, biting her lip. Her face cleared, and she grinned. “I have something you can wear. Hold on,” she said, disappearing into her room.

I walked over to grab the skirt and started shimmying out of my jeans. Thank goodness I never wore Mom jeans, which could also be tagged teacher jeans; us elementary school teachers weren’t exactly renowned for our fashion sense, unless it was for our ability to choose wash’n’wear fabric. I zipped up the skirt and twirled.

“Back. Here,” Becca said, throwing something towards me.

I grabbed it out of the air and held it up. “No way, Becca.”

“You didn’t even try it on yet, Mom! Come on, what are you scared of? If it looks like crap, you don’t have to wear it. Just try it.”

“I can’t.”

“Mom. You can’t be scared of yourself your whole life. This is your big night, you should look as fabulous as you can. And in this,” she said, gesturing towards the top that couldn’t possibly be a medium, could it? “you will look totally fabulous.”

She was right, I couldn’t be scared of myself any longer. I mean, what else was I going to do? I’d been me for so long, and that wasn’t always a good choice. I might as well be me, only with superhuman confidence powers. Like when I was on stage tonight.

Yikes.

Stage.

Me.

Again, and not just playing cover songs at a wedding.

“Okay, let me try it on.” I struggled out of my t-shirt and dropped it on the floor.

“You’ve still got a nice rack, Mom,” Becca said.

“You are not being helpful,” I hissed at her as I began to put the top on.

It was red. Not fire engine red, but a darker cranberry. Which would have been fine, only it was a modified corset that was very low-cut, had tiny little straps holding it up and was done up with small hooks shaped like dragons on the front. And it was made of a stretchy fabric that clung to every part of my body.

Very Forever 21, and I was nearly twice that age.

So, yeah, working. At 22,998 words, but who’s counting?

So the Delightful Phone Friend will mock (”Ratface!”), but I am experiencing a tremendous urge to watch North And South. Dunno why, it’s kinda like a tide coming into my body or something. It’s weird. At random moments, I’ll think “I MUST see it again!”

Only I haven’t done it yet. Huh. Maybe I am good at delayed gratification (and if so, tell that to the coupla handfuls of cashews I devoured earlier in the day).

Oh, and I wrote again today! Inching ever closer to 25,000 words, which is my stopping point so I can send it to the aforementioned DPF for feedback. Will then go work on festive paranormal idea.

Megan
*Now this is a total in-joke between me and my dad. And since Dad isn’t here anymore, it’s now a total in-joke with just me. Which means that I have officially crossed the line from zany to crazy. But I cannot read a compass, not for the life of me, and I cannot understand its point. Hence the compass joke.

*

“Nooooo.” Billy stared up at the ceiling. The water spots from his upstairs neighbor’s leaky tub had gotten bigger. Damn. More things to fix. And here he was, lying on the cold tiled floor clutching his stomach. Stupid ulcer. Damn thing always had to act up right when he needed to be on. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss the show tonight, he couldn’t give up the money, much less disappoint the fans and his bandmates, all of whom were counting on the money, too.

“Shit.” He rolled onto his side and drew his knees up into his chest. It felt fractionally better that way.

“Breathe, Billy.” He’d found if he talked to himself, like really spoke out loud, it helped him deal with the pain. He wasn’t good at being alone, wasn’t it a fucking bitch he’d ended up that way? Woe is you, Billy, he thought.

“Okay. Breathe in.” He inhaled, feeling the twinge of pain right as his lungs swelled to their maximum. His prescription had run out a few weeks ago, and he’d been so busy with rehearsal, and so jazzed about the show he hadn’t bothered to get it refilled. Figured maybe he didn’t need it anymore.

He figured wrong. “You’re an asshole, Billy.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the kind of talking to he needed right now.

*This is how I imagine Billy.

And it might be stinky, but whatevs:

She was so fucked. Liam had come over to her, tried to talk about what happened, and she’d shut him down like she was on a soap opera and they were going to commercial.

Because, and this was the ‘so fucked’ part, she wished she had done anything but throw him out that night. Even though he’d been steadfastly ignoring her since he got hired, even though when he spoke to her, he was all business. Until he handed her that coffee. And then? When he was actually going to talk to her about something other than band business? She’d stopped him cold.

Fucked, fucked, fucked.

From the Work-in-Progress:

Fuck, Liam. Stop acting like a teenager. Unless you are going to make a move—and she sure as hell would have no reason to like him now, not with how obnoxiously he’d been behaving—he had to get over this sophomoric obsession.

“Thanks,” she said in a low tone as she took the cup. She gazed at him warily, maybe wondering just what the hell was up with him. Like he was, only he would guess she swore about it a lot less than he did.

“No problem.” He placed Billy’s cup on top of one of the amplifiers. “Look, I should expl—

She held her hand up. “No need, please. Really. I’m really sorry about—you know, about that night.” She looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here, talking to him.

His anger flared. Shit. He didn’t want to get pissed all over again, but was she really trying to shut him down? Without even hearing what he had to say?

“Fine. Great.” He tightened his mouth so he wouldn’t say exactly what was in his mind.

“Okay,” she replied, plastering a stupid fake smile on her face. When it so clearly wasn’t okay.

And she was still so cute.

Fuck him. He was so fucked.

It’s weird; for some reason–and I’m not going to scrutinize it too much–I’ve been able to fit writing into my schedule. Even if I just manage 500 or so words, I’ve been doing it at least every other day.

Yay!

This Friday, I am going to Book Expo America, where I will hob and nob with authors, publishers and other pub-related folks.

And, currently winging its way to me, is the Faux Critique Partner’s book:

But I won’t be reading anything that I desperately want to until I reach 25,000 words on the current WIP. Gotta have goals, yo.