Third Time the Charm?

Got my first piece of fan-mail.

It was an email from one of Batman’s previous students who read all my books and was asking when the fourth would be coming out. I’m pretty sure I squealed a bit and maybe did a happy dance around the computer. Maybe. The email was only a sentence long and void of any punctuation (which absolutely annoyed me) but it didn’t matter. Someone I had never met said they loved my series and wanted to read the next installment. That, my friends, is called awesomeness.

Which I needed since I just scrapped 30,000 words of my current WIP.


Nothing is ever wasted. I still have my sixty page document in a folder of ‘scraps’ but that took about three weeks to write. And then I realized it was wrong. All wrong. Where the story started, how I was telling it. No. It needed to be tossed. And started over. Again. Which I did. For the third time.


And now it’s a completely different story because of all the epiphanies I keep having about “oh it would be cool if…” and “it would really make more sense to…” and now I’m back to having no idea what I’m writing. Again. I still do it, everyday, pretty much all day except for routine bathroom breaks and when I stop to eat and watch Daredevil. (Have you seen this? It must be something about dating Batman that gets me into shows about super heroes). And since I’ve been so busy writing the first draft of this whatever story, I’m just now returning to this post which was started a week ago, my friends. A week. Either I’m losing my mind and forgetting to finish things, or I’m too focused on others. Like writing a story for the third time and going panster all the way. ALL THE WAY, PEOPLE. Someone’s rolling the dice, closing her eyes and hoping for the best. I’ve never been to Vegas, but I’m pretty sure this is how it’d go.

Anyway, Batman reminded me the other day that I haven’t posted since April 8th. And then I thought well what about that fanmail piece? But then was like, oh wait, you actually have to post something for people to read it. And also to finish it. That normally helps. 

So here you are, ladies and gentleman–the five of you that read this blog. Another post, about a week late, writing about writing (big surprise) which is still the best thing ever, except maybe Daredevil, which might be my new favorite show since Walking dead is between seasons. I don’t know. You check it out and tell me.

Things still to come: moving to Jacksonville post. And the one about visiting St. Augustine. And the one to Harry Potter World.

Shit, I am behind.

Write I Am

I haven’t written my “we moved to Jacksonville” post because I’m still unpacking from the move to Jacksonville and getting the house in order. YES. A HOUSE. You know, the one with the asshole snake in it. Every room has about fifteen boxes and now that there’s no carpet, tracking dirt and mopping it up seem to be my two main activities.

*shrugs in home-making defeat*

We moved about two weeks ago because it was the best option financially and someone once said that “opportunity is missed by most people because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work.” I think it was Edison. Anyway, I really like that quote because now every time I hear the word opportunity, I think of someone in overalls with a hammer. I’m not in overalls and I don’t have a hammer, but I’d bet Batman’s baseball collection that that’s what this move is: an opportunity.

Every day for a week and a half, I’ve been able to write. Whenever I want. All day. Early, late–it’s up to me and it’s been MARVELOUS. If I wasn’t before, I’m now convinced that this is what I want to do with my life. Wake up, power up the Krueig and sit down at my laptop. And just let go. Write, write, write until my stomach begs for food. Write, write, write until my body implores to be washed. Write, write, write until Batman comes home and wants to talk about his day and what happened in the world and after a quick meal it’s back to the laptop to write, write, write some more because I can’t help it. And I don’t want to. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. This is my thing.

Everyone has one. Some people teach, some people heal, some people are really good at fixing things and playing music and doing math. Some people make great coffee and paint awesome pictures and speak sixteen langues and fly airplanes. I’m good at this. I know it. I feel it in my bones and I’m happy. I’m so happy even though this is temporary and I’ll have to find work again to keep supporting the Wayne manor. But I’m happy because right now I’m living my dream. I wake up and I write. And I write and I write and I write. And I know that somewhere past all my self doubt (that bitch) and worrying about what if I never make it, it’ll be worth it because I’m doing the thing that’s my thing. And that’s what’s important.

Anyway, I just wanted to say all that.

Oh, and what a beautiful day today is.


He Was an Asshole Snake

Just survived my first home invasion.

Mostly because Batman’s always on duty. Although it took him watching ALL OF THE Arrow to believe me that I wasn’t being delusional, that there actually was a snake in the living room and not, as he claimed, the fan rustling a bag of extension cords.

I need my eyes checked. He’s been claiming it for months. So, who cares that I squint to see far away. I’m not freaking Superman, over here. And, okay yes, sometimes I need an extra eye rub to erase all the fuzziness. Doesn’t mean I don’t know a bobbing snake head when I see one. Especially since his slithering tail was a damn giveaway and caused the initial scream in the first place.


Batman, while still playing XBOX, glanced over all nonchalant. “Stop April Foolsing.”

“I’m NOT! There is a SNAKE and I SWEAR TO GOD I saw him.”

And because Batman loves me (and, probably fear of the possibility) he proceeded to ‘check’ the television by poking around the tv base with a broom while banging it against the wall and door. But nothing. Not a peep. Not as much as a tail wag or a head pop. There was nothing behind the television or in the plastic bag of extension cords. Batman made sure of it. He picked the bag up and spilled out all the contents, right there on my recently mopped floor.

“There’s no snake here. Maybe you imagined it.”

“I did NOT imagine. I saw it. I saw its little head pop out and it looked around and then it slithered away.”

“But I don’t see a snake.”

“Well obviously he’s good at hiding.”

After another thorough search of the living room, Batman threw in the towel. I was imagining things. It was the fan rustling the bag and I’ve needed to have my eyes checked for a while anyway. And he was missing playing his XBOX and the Arrow was on too. I needed to sit down, forget the ‘imaginary’ snake (whom I lovingly referred to as Mr. Hiss) and relax.

And then Batman walked past the television. And all hell broke loose.

It’s happens very rarely, but sometimes I catch glimpses of my boyfriend morphing into the planet’s deadliest warrior. It’s like he’s been passed down this supreme responsibility of hunt-and-attack with the weight of the world, and of protecting his dominion, bearing down on him. When Batman saw that little black bastard, all bets were off. It was kill or be killed time. It was do or do not; there was no trying. Once that snake goofed up and revealed itself, it’d signed its death certificate because Batman WOULD NOT STOP.

There was a lot of yelling to twist here! and grab me a knife! and hurry, hurry, hurry!

little bastard.

little bastard.

Due to his highly trained ass-kicking ways, Batman managed to corner the intruder with a shovel tip to the neck. Then, (I kid you not) proceeded to stab it with a knife since he couldn’t get the right angle with the shovel. There was some more yelling about how he’s not getting away and there was no chance in HELL and then Batman decapitated Sir Hiss.

And it was gross.

Super, super gross.

Now Batman’s walking around feeling like a snake-slaying warrior. All baddass and don’t mess with me motherfuckers I just slayed a mini dragon. It’s kind of cute.

I felt bad for the snake for only an instant and then remembered he hid from us and made my boyfriend question my sanity for OVER AN HOUR. No, fuck that snake. He wasn’t cuddly like Sir Hiss. He was an asshole snake. And deserved an asshole snake death. Good riddance.




Moral of the story? Believe your girlfriend when she tells you she sees a damn snake.

He’s there. Trust her.

Self Doubt, Thou Art a Bitch

Happy first Wednesday to writers everywhere and all you A-Z Challenge Bloggers—I wish you good luck, a whole lot of sanity and a happy month of writing 🙂

IWSG (Insecure Writers Support Group) posts the first Wednesday of every month and is a place to share your worries and doubts and fears and all those other fun elements of what it means to be a writer. Started by Ninja Captain Alex Cavanaugh, you can find more information about the group along with the blog hop list here. So go visit, make some friends and be cheered up that you’re not in this alone in this crazy lifestyle 🙂

My insecurity this month (and kind of like, my entire life) is that awesome enemy of creativity: self doubt.

Because the past week or so, one thought’s been circulating every time I open the laptop.

What the fuck am I doing?

I’ll reread a few paragraphs and squint in dismay. DISMAY at what I wrote. And then I think, uh, how long have you been writing, girl? And you came up with that? Sheesh.

We all go through it; I know we do. Doesn’t soften the blow when you reread your words and sit there contemplating if you really hated being a receptionist that much because hey, they have good health insurance and potlucks once a month. So maybe it’s better to not go for your dreams and decide to be more practical because no one’s going to want to read your shitty words anyway. Am I right, guys?


Fuck being a receptionist and having awesome health insurance and eating at work potlucks. I can microwave my own damn food and avoid falling into pot holes and work on what really matters, not typing up someone else’s agenda or answering phones and directing calls. Because even though my words suck today, I’ll make them better tomorrow or next week. Writing is rewriting. Faith is believing even when you’re squinting in dismay and seriously considering going for your third glass of wine because what the hell are you doing with your life.

So repeat after me:


What about you? Have you been feeling good about your work lately? Or are you struggling with motivation and faith? Tell me I’m not the only one who plays this wine-inducing questioning game on a regular basis. Please.

Oh self doubt, thou art a bitch.