That line is dead and I’m not on it

WHELLLLP, it’s August 24 and I’m still only three quarters of the way through the first draft of the book that was supposed to be on sale right now so… that didn’t work out. I mean, giving yourself deadlines is good, right? But there’s that whole REALITY thing out there where you gotta figure out money and kids and surviving a pandemic in a city where you witnessed not one, not two, not three or four but more than a handful of maskless outdoor parties in public spaces.

My kids are not only bored–and I’m running out of ideas, ya’ll–but getting feisty and malcontented and … physically aggressive. So my main focus–again, other than getting enough money to buy groceries–has been tamping down on those biting, scratching, carrying on like an actual animal behaviors.

How do you write for fun when the world is falling apart? How do you write a feel-good fluffy luv story when your feral child is quite literally biting your leg?

Props to the people who are getting it done. But I am not among you.

I’m not giving up. Just… accepting reality. Again.

False advertising.

Is Writer’s Memory Block a Thing?

I’m more than three quarters through my latest WIP and I just want to be done. Like just finish it and worry about how much it sucks in editing. But there are more THINGS that need to happen and characters need to get their shit together and like… a climax and denouement should find their way in there.

The problem is that I’m doing that thing I always do when it takes me a long time to write a whole piece. I kinda like forget what happened before and like… who some of the side characters are and what their deal is and did I close their loop or is there some plot hole somewhere? Also, I had this whole side story about one of the girls in a relationship with an older man but decided I hated it and closed that loop with, “Yeah, I thought we were like, having a thing but mostly, I was having a crush and he was ignoring me.”

This is why editing exists. I just want to get to the shitty unsatisfying end so I can begin again with MASSIVE EDITS and CLARIFYING OF PLOT and WHO WAS THAT DUDE AGAIN?

But it’s August and I’m almost done with the first draft so… there’s still a chance this thing gets done by the end of the summer.

Time to Get Back to My Girls

August was never a realistic timeline for the completion of my current WIP, especially with that pesky day job of mine sucking away all my time and sanity, but you know what? I quit that job. I did. I quit a decent-paying job that let me work from home to take care of my kids during a pandemic and I had the support of HR to do it. THAT, my friends, is how badly I was being treated.

So… let’s see, now. It’s mid-July and I’m not quite 3/4 through writing my first draft. I ditched the job, but not the children so it’s not like I gained a lot of time for writing. I did get my brain back–which was so stressed out that I had perma-fog and consistent headache–and perhaps that’ll help me figure out… what the climax of this story should be. Because right now… I do. not. know.

There’s only so much inner turmoil that can count as plot, right?

Anyway, here’s another excerpt from Like Two of the Same, the sequel to Like Two Opposite Things which just recently became a physical book to hug and love. It’s the reunion of summer besties after some selfish behavior and forced time apart.

Too many “best friends” photos with cell phones in them. What’s that about? This is a 90s story, ya’ll. Photo by Bran Sodre on Pexels.com

He grabs my hand and pulls me forward, down a side path I didn’t even know existed before now that acts as a much too quick shortcut to Heather’s road. I can see her through the trees running around in her bathing suit with a towel around her neck.

“No, see? She’s busy. I should just leave her alone.”

“Helia, this is ridiculous. I bet you anything in the world that the second she sees you, Heather will bust out of the screen house, jump over the bushes and bear hug the snot out of you.”

“Doubtful,” I mumble but I guess I’m about to find out. 

“Heather!” Jason yells from just down the lane from her driveway and waves enthusiastically like this isn’t the worst thing possible for me. I shift a little behind him so she can’t see me right away when she looks up.

“What up, Jace?!” she yells back. “Who’s that behind you?” she says right before it becomes pretty clear that she knows exactly who it is. 

“OH HEELLLLLLLL–” she says and starts running, dropping the towels and sunscreen on her way. She jumps through the bushes–not over, so Jason was wrong about that part–and slams her entire body into mine with the force of a thousand football players. “YEAHHHHHHH!” she screams in my ear and the only reason I haven’t been thrown backwards into a tree by the collision is because she wraps her arms around me so tightly, there’s no way to escape.

We do fall down, though. 

Heather’s on top of me, squeezing and snuggling, and “Oh My GOD”ing, and all I can see is Jason standing over us, smiling.

“See?” he says

 

Current Media Consumption

I’m having trouble saying “Happy 4th” today because is it? IS IT?

Instead, I’d like to complain about Vagrant Queen and Where’d You Go, Bernadette.

I borrowed Where’s You Go, Bernadette from the library after hearing about it on some social media something-or-other and was surprised and delighted that it was available on Libby right away! Usually, I have to wait several weeks for books I’d like to read but not pay for and by the time they are available, I don’t have time to read them. But this one? Right away? Lovely!

No. I’m 12% in, according to Kindle, and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m not a huge fan of the storytelling-through-letters/social media trope to begin with but trying to enjoy a story that sounds like an only slightly exaggerated version of my daily work email inbox in impossible. I hate my day job. I hate the way my coworkers communicate with each other in passive-aggressive jabs and vague requests that keep anyone from taking responsibility or getting anything done. I certainly don’t find it entertaining to see the hyperbolized version of that. I’ve giving up on the book. I don’t care where Bernadette went; I just want her to stay there.

As for Vagrant Queen on Sify: I WANTED to like it so very badly. It’s a badass queer QUEEN making her way through the universe with a quirky love interest and a male sidekick who is both sexy and non-threatening–and also Tim Rozon who is just lovely and crush-worthy all on his own–with space ships and weird aliens and hijinks and space battles and YES! Yes, bestill my nerdy scifi heart, yes.

No. It was so… slow and boring. It was filmed fanfic in the way it lingered too long on the minutia instead of cutting to the chase. I found myself wanting to just get through it so I knew what happened like a textbook or the biography of Hamilton with the theater marquee pic as the cover so I wrongfully assumed it would be the book version of the play (no, God, no… and I LIKE biographies but that one was bo-ring). Scifi shouldn’t be slow and boring and fast-forwardable. So I’m not sad it got cancelled.

The things I’ve been watching and enjoying:

Virgin River on Netflix

Lucifer on Netflix

Agents of Shield on… you know, real TV

Sweet Magnolias on Netflix

and my new fav, No Tomorrow on Netflix.

 

Apparently, I’m all about small towns taking care of their own while reluctantly letting strangers in while avoiding apocalypse and/or embracing the end of the world with humor and self-reflection.

The only thing I’ve enjoyed reading lately–and mind you, I’m mostly reading Covid-mitigation strategies and crappy passive-aggressive coworker emails–is those Buzzfeed articles that point out that good things are still happening like people being funny and pets being cute. There was a baby in a wig and that was delightful.

I have written 0% of my new book in the past 3 weeks so it might be time to take down the FB banner that promises its completion.

Damnit, did my kids leave another cup in front of the TV? I’m so sick of cleaning this house. Photo by John-Mark Smith on Pexels.com

 

 

Once Upon a Status Report

I could make a career out of Toxic Workplace Stories with source material to last me to infinity but no one would want to read it because most of us can say the exact same thing.

Do managers read those “What Makes People Hate Work: Their Managers” articles for tips and tricks in how to be horrible?

Secrets of a Hobby Novelist: Character Development

Today, my writer friends, I’d like to tell you some secrets about my characters:

1. They’re all me because I write them. I don’t understand why that’s not more obvious to people who ask authors, “Who are your characters based on?” Duh, it’s me and my perceptions about the people around me all mixed up in one of those little smoothie blenders so I can work out my issues through storytelling. Maybe there are writers who don’t think their characters are themselves but like… where do the characters come from if not your own brain? If they are based on someone else, it’s your perspective of that person. I think the only thing that would make this not true is if you have a co-writer or a very opinionated editor.
2. All of the villains are some version of my parents. Because I have issssssssues. According to my newest therapist, those issues are called Complex Trauma because of insidious emotional neglect throughout my childhood. So even when I base the villain/antagonist on an actual person I hate, I usually hate them because they’re delivering similarly messed up messages about who I am and how little worth I have intrinsically as a human regardless of my behavior.
3. Every single story I’ve ever written has been about me trying to work through some facet of my childhood trauma.
   • The Homecoming Effect: Issues of belonging, safety, knowing there’s a responsible adult looking out for your well-being
   • Like Two Opposite Things: Mixed messages and misunderstandings about sexuality, the neglect in giving children too much independence, belonging and knowing there’s a responsible adult looking after your well-being
   • Lay Her Ghosts to Rest: Being valued and understood for who you are, belonging, knowing there are responsible adults at your workplace looking after employees’ well-being
   • Fully Functioning: I mean, this whole story was about how I had postpartum depression and my entire family did absolutely nothing to help me
4. The reason I keep writing the same themes over and over again is because I’m not over any of it. I have just found a therapist who finally sees me and takes me seriously sooooo… guess who will probably make an appearance at some point as the mentor/savior character and/or the one responsible adult in the story who is taking care of things? Maybe I’ll name her Linda after the therapist in Lucifer who is my absolute fav character in that show. Sure, Lucifer is flashy and fun, Ella is a delight, and Charlotte had a pretty satisfying redemption story but Linda? She’s my gal. So, keep an eye out for Linda the Hero in some future book of mine. I’ll demand that Rachael Harris play her in the movie version.

What does it say when you have a favorite fantasy therapist? 

Hug-a-Book

Sometimes you just gotta hug the book you love and I’m happy to announce that we finally can!

Like Two Opposite Things is now available in paperback on Amazon.

Helia Desiderio–nicknamed “Hell-yeah” by her friends–is just a kiss-virgin baby dork embarrassed by her 15-year kiss-free streak and her free-wheeling, light-partying parents who spend their weekends misbehaving in a mid-90s family campground while she lets her best friend Heather take care of her. But Heather’s got a plan that’ll bring the campground kids together: a friendly game of Spin the Bottle where anyone can kiss anyone, boy or girl and anyone who has a problem with that can go jump in the lake. Things get complicated when the new girl arrives and Hell-yeah discovers that her clean-cut handsome jock crush object, Patrick, isn’t all that, the grungy smoker boy with the greasy hair isn’t as bad as he seems, and the new girl, Desiree, has more than friendly feelings that Hell-yeah might just be feeling herself.

 

FYI: I’m making excellent progress on the sequel!

 

Part 1 in the bag and ready to travel

47,000 words (plus notes that don’t count) completed and Part 1 of my new book is written. I set myself a goal of August to finish and publish and it’s a long-shot but at least I’ve accomplished this much. I started this bad boy during April’s Camp NaNo way back in 2018 and decided to pick it back up this spring and get it done.

For reference, this is the sequel to the only book I wrote that ever sold well, Like Two Opposite Things. It takes place in a family campground in the 90s, features a bi-sexual lead character named Helia whose parents are emotionally absent so she relies heavily on her friends for comfort, support, and food.

Excerpt from Chapter 34 of Like Two of the Same by Eda J. Vor:

Heather wipes her eyes really quick and takes a great big breath to calm herself. “I’m going out on the boat with my parents today,” she says, grabbing the slider handle. “So… I mean, maybe we can talk later or something but I think I just need a break from you.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. 

She opens the slider and I think this is the saddest I’ve ever been in my entire life. Breaking up with Desiree, all that stuff with Lexi, and my sexual assault last summer, it made me angry more than anything else. Even when my grandfather died a few years ago, I don’t remember it feeling like this. 

“I know, I know,” she says outside. “I’m shutting the door!”

“Not today, Heather,” my dad says brushing past her. He doesn’t close the door behind him, just rushes into his bedroom. My mom follows right behind and she doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Heather at all. 

“What’s going on?” I ask. They’re moving way too fast for a Sunday morning.

“I don’t want to hear it, Helia. Go pack your stuff. We’re going home.”

Heather gives me a look through the doorway and I shrug. “Mom? What is happening right now?”

“Go pack. NOW. We don’t have time for this.”

Heather sticks her head back into the trailer. “Hey Desidoos, what’s going on? Anything I can help with?”

“You can get out of the way,” my dad says, carrying his and my mom’s bags outside. 

“Helia, pack. Heather, good bye,” my mom says as she empties the fridge into the cooler that was packed tight with booze like, twelve hours ago.

“You don’t have to be so rude to her,” I protest. “She’s just trying to help.” So not only did I screw things up with my best friend but now my parents are just kicking her right out? This is it, I think, she’s never going to be friends with me again. I have just lost one of the most important people in my life and my parents have obviously gone crazy and for real, WHAT is going on?

 

Like Two Opposite Things is available on Amazon.

 

Coming this summer… if I can handle that kind of pressure to finish it in time

Jumping on the B&N Wagon

I’m trying something new, ya’ll: B&N Press. As my KDP Select enrollment ends, I’ll be adding more books to B&N. Maybe I’ll even advertise that, I don’t know.

But it was time to get off my reliance on Amazon.

Check it out HERE.

Available now from Barnes and Noble

What starts as a meaningless fling between Bunny, an emotionally-conflicted older woman who just left her battle-scarred husband and Daniel, a hopelessly infatuated younger man recently graduated from college, is curtailed by a series of explosions that destroys schools and hospitals sending the couple 200 miles from home with three children in tow. When the found family seeks safety in a strict religious community, they are forced to concoct a web of lies to appear legitimate and avoid being exiled, or worse. Can they maintain their ruse to avoid suspicion and keep their family together or will the secrets they keep from each other drive them apart? And how much of the trauma they discovered her husband and his father shared upon returning from war was ultimately responsible for the tragic events that lead to their new lives?

How’s That For Writer’s Block

It’s not that I’m bored and need something to do or that I have all this time on my hands so I might as well write. I don’t have time. I’m working from home, I’m taking care of two children, I’ve got the functional depression and anxiety always working in the background along with that inner voice leftover from a lonely childhood telling me I’m lazy and stupid and such a disappointment to everyone who couldn’t control me.

I can’t write. I can’t concentrate long enough to read through whole emails, never mind construct anything of value without reading the same five words over and over–again, over and over because of another interruption, again over and over because of the screaming child, the whiny child, the husband whose thoughts burst out of his face without rhyme or reason (or fucking context) but I have to stop what I’m doing and unravel whatever failure of communication is coming frantically my way.

I read it again to try to remember what I was just thinking about, what I was trying to say myself, my own thoughts so jumbled by the intrusion of everyone else’s in my house, all trapped here together, no childcare, no distraction, no school, no playground. I’ve got to keep all of it together, not just my own thoughts but theirs as well. And I’ve got to stay on top of work–all those adult professionals who can’t ask for what they need or tell me what they want, just complain when their needs aren’t met not unlike my whiny son or screaming daughter.

When did the burden of communication fall completely on me? Why is it my job to untangle the old jewelry drawer of mixed messages and nonverbal cues to make sense of all of this? I want to speak another language like my in-laws so I can pretend I don’t understand and walk away. Leave them to their own devices. Focus on the thoughts in my head for once. Try like hell to write them down.

I don’t want to write to pass the time. I want to write to remember who I am, how I think, what I need without the constant noise of everyone else’s incomplete thoughts and inadequate relay. I want to help. I want everyone to be ok. But I also want to be included in the concept of “everyone”.

I can’t write but in bits and pieces. I can’t remember where I left off. I feel like my own words are an echo of everyone else’s and I can’t separate me from the voices in my head.

I can’t fucking concentrate. I can’t fucking read. I can’t fucking write. I’m playing stupid games on my cell phone to drown it all out. I’ve built a beautiful house in a digital world by matching colorful pictures and that’s all I have to show for my time.