Have Fun or Go Home

IS IT CHEATING if you change your goal to meet the reality of your circumstances?

I ask because I’m not sure. But neither am I sure that I care.

As I say to my students when they get a little too intense about a friendly game of dodge ball:

What happens if you win? Nothing. What happens if you lose? Nothing. There are no stakes other than your own enjoyment so ENJOY IT and don’t worry so much about the outcome.

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I changed my CampNano word count goal to 20,000 because I think that’s doable, if still difficult for me to accomplish right now. Still, I think I’ll get more out of this experience if I can at least get close to my goal than if I fail miserably.

The real goal is to keep writing. Feeling good about what I can accomplish is key.

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Never Again

And for all the jackholes who said, “What’s so bad about infidelity?” I say:

Listen, jackholes, he didn’t just cheat on his wife and got found out. He used his position of power in a demonstrably misogynistic and opportunistic industry to coerce the women who worked for him into extramarital relationships. Then he gaslighted his wife, making her believe she was CRAZY for thinking he’d cheat because he was such a big fat feminist. Meanwhile, he presented himself to the world as a champion of women’s rights.

Coercion

Gaslighting

Hypocrisy

To name a few things other than infidelity.

And the new show is on HBO which routinely excuses rape as a valid form of plot advancement. So no. Not interested.

The Poser Generation

I just saw a bus ad for The Motorcycle Lawyer, a dashing white-haired dude in a dark polo, jeans, and a leather jacket who’s totally straight-laced and reliable but with a wild streak! I mean, he’s obviously not a REGULAR lawyer. He’s a COOL Lawyer. He’d rather you didn’t break the law but if you have to, have him on retainer.

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And you know, what? Cool motorcycle lawyer probably gets a lot of clients because Baby Boomers still think counter-culture coolness is dudes on motorcycles and girls in bikinis or whatever. Damn the man, they say, with no sense of irony. I’m ain’t gonna follow no rules, they yell at their queer grandchildren who just want to use the bathroom. I’m no square, they cry as they enact policy banning things and people that are different from them. Ban the bomb, they chant, as they vote Republican over and over again and watch their children’s and their grandchildren’s world grow more and more volatile.

The Motorcycle Lawyer. Dude, Dennis Hopper is dead and Peter Fonda’s a liberal. You’re just the hick with the shotgun.

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Your 15-year-old self hates you.

 

How to Fill a Page

Before my first child was born, I told my OB/GYN that I was concerned I was a good strong candidate for some hardcore postpartum depression. She referred me to a therapist and suggested I see her before the birth so I could start working on coping strategies before the big event.

I spent three sessions of an hour each complaining about my mother-in-law.

Now, a good therapist–which she was not–would have read between the lines and addressed my issues with expressing emotion and how having a child was scary for me because it came alone with BIG EMOTIONS that I didn’t feel prepared for. My mother-in-law is a frequent expresser of emotions, you see. I did explain that. I did explain a lot of things. But when I said, “I don’t really think these sessions are helping me,” she said, “Well, you managed to fill the hour well enough.”

Let’s skip past the obviousness of her ineptitude and touch upon the most relevant nugget of wisdom for a busy person trying to fulfill a word quota for a Camp Nano project:

If you’re a good enough complainer, you can fill several hours–or several thousand pages–just with that. The good stuff, we’ll leave for next month when the pressure to perform is off.

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Tell me more about my paycheck…

Also, writing is my best therapy. It doesn’t always make for great copy but it does force me to express and examine my issues several times over. And it’s free.

Little Girl Got Some Big D Energy

I’ve been reading quite a bit about BDE* this weekend and I would like to nominate my daughter as the next big thing.

 

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*I’m looking forward to the KidzBop version of this because it’s got a great beat but a bit too explicit.

 

Just a few moons shy of a full year old, my daughter can’t even really walk yet but she’s climbing things like she’s got places to be and people to look down at and wave to.

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My son has a Planes scooty thing with little wings that fold down on the side. Baby girl not only got herself two feet up on the seat but stepped out ONTO THE WING while holding the coffee table. She tried to get on the coffee table from there but I felt like that was a step further than I was willing to allow.

And yeah, I let her climb up there. I want to see what she can do. More so, I want HER to see what she can do. And if and when she falls, I’ll be there to catch her.

I feel like if kids got the itch to climb, they’re going to climb and the least I can do as a parent is teach them how to do it safely. I did the same thing with my son and no major injuries yet.

Then again, he never even considered some of the daredevil stunts my daughter gets into.

Plane Wing Stunt

PROOF!

Get Back in the Closet, Unicorn

Geez Louise, Eda, why is your word count stuck at 23 today?!

Well, internet, given that “free time” is a precious commodity in my life and I’ve just wasted half of it restarting my damn computer, I’ve opted to go clean out my closet instead.

My computer doesn’t want me to write today. It’s not procrastination.

It’s not.

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This is what I’ve written today:

I’ve got nothing doing. I had had a nice little fantasy about a Mexican actor I’ve had a crush on since film school.

Go go Na-noooooo!

The Best Thing I’ve Never Written

I’ll tell you what: if Buzzfeed starts banging out the Mad Libs-style fun quiz, I’m never leaving that site again.

Here’s my favorite part of the dystopian YA novel Buzzfeed helped me write while I should have been real writing my Camp NaNo project:

The Chaperones began placing memory erasing coffee k-cups on the temples of all children. Rythe saw this and knew she must make her escape. She had heard a fable in her earlier years told by the children at her school, when the New Government was gaining control. Apparently there was a code to deactivate their android creations. What was that rhyme they used to chant around the schoolyard? Then Rythe remembered. She stood up and recited: “toenail, third rail, 001, jury duty, big ole booty, 001.” Suddenly, all Chaperones dropped their bottles and cans and stood up in unison, then left the room.

 

Toenail, third rail, 001
Jury duty, big ole booty, 001

That’s poetry.

From My Cot in the Laundry Room

I just now realized that today is the first day of Camp NaNoWriMo and I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m doing.

Part of the reason I’m distracted is because I’m mad at my spouse.

And I just saw an ad for a real book written by a fake character on a show I like which is just… not fair. It’s not fair that fake people get to make real books.

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I hate her simpering smile and her stupid face. 

So the obvious solution to all of my problems is to write a much less sexy, much more sad establishment of a Space of My Own story about how I too would like to take a vacation from my marriage but I’m not a rich selfish bland self-righteous jerkbitch who would ever leave her children so instead I just stay late at work and take an extra lap around Target for some Me Time before returning to my hermit corner to write something that’ll inevitably be ignored into obscurity on Amazon.

Obviously a best seller. Super talented. Feeling like a winner. Definitely not the saddest sack of potatoes in this cellar today.

 

Apologies to Tom

I took Tom’s beverage and there is no excuse, since his name is on the label on the side.

But in my defense, when I asked the woman behind the counter–she of hat brim pulled down over her eyes who mumbled something akin to “order ready” as she slid Tom’s beverage across the counter–“Is this mine? I didn’t hear–“, she nodded and walked away. The woman next in line was frothing behind me, human tailgate-style, and I didn’t want to cause a scene so I took the drink I thought was mine and went back to my car where I started to wonder why it tasted so much better than it should.

Oh, I realized once I pulled into my driveway, having finished off 2/3 of it. Whole milk. Whole milk, light ice for Tom. Whose drink I took. Because I trusted a eye-contactless nod rather than investigating just to avoid being a bother.

If it makes you feel any better, Tom, if it gives you some sense of justice or vengeance or karma working in your favor for once… I’m lactose intolerant.

Rip This Book to Pieces and Spit Your Opinions on My Shoes

It’s free… for the next couple days, anyway. Review the crap out of it and explain to me why it gets so little love compared to everything else I’ve ever written.

Lay_Her_Ghosts_to_Rest_Self_Care_and_Spirit_GuidesLay Her Ghosts to Rest, a women’s fiction novel recently discovered to also fit nicely into the Hen Lit category is a novel of self-discovery through professional ghost counseling and has the fewest free downloads of any of my books.

Are the ghosts turning you off? Because they’re thoughtful ghosts. Mostly harmless. Sometimes preachy. Some of them want to eat your face but most just need some compassion.

Is it the women’s fiction angle? Do you expect much talk of menstruation and hair care? Because there’s none of that.

Download it for free today, tomorrow, or the next day and rip it apart, if you want. I could use ANY feedback about this bad girl. Any at all.

Thanks, friends. I knew I could count on you.