Oh My God, it's been a year, and some thoughts on self-publishing

Honestly, I don't know where the time went...

Okay, I do, but it's not that interesting. My knees went to hell. My job got a little untenable. Some other things happened. I got a new job.

Long story short, guess what? I've decided it really is time to start blogging again.

Yes, we are. Just because I've been inconsistent and and little absent doesn't mean that blog won't be fabulous. Just shut up and be pretty.

Yes, exactly, thank you. Now back to me.

I made the decision, after 20+ years of internal wrangling, and worried that I'll never be considered a "real writer" and trying and trying and trying and failing and trying again, that I'm going to self-publish one my books. 

Hey this is big deal for me. All I have ever wanted is to be a published author. I want to be able to go into a bookstore and pick up my book off the shelf. And in a way, going with self-publishing feels a little disappointing. Like I didn't work hard enough or write well enough to be one of the cool kids who get to live that particular dream. Even though I know how long I've worked my book, how much I've done in pursuit of my goal.

Honestly, I had to change the entire way I thought about my writing just to decide yes, I was going to dive into the world of self-publishing. I realized that I wasn't doing myself any favors by holding out vague hopes for traditionally publishing this particular project. I'm going to finish up the edits on the book and get it out in the world. And I'm going to do everything I can to make the book incredible.

Then, I'm going to write something else.

A few somethings actually. I have this great idea about a wicked witch solving mysteries and this other one about a woman living through an invasion and...

Hush. I'll get to it.

I'm going to ramble a bit here, but I promise it's all part of the same line (or big, wibbley-wobbly ball) of thinking. And that word, focus is exactly at the center of my decision to to self-publish. Follow me here:

When I look back over everything I've written, I can see a lack of focus. I think for a long time I didn't know what I wanted to write about, really. Because I always want to write about everything. I want to write young adult books that make girls cry and serious literary pieces about obscure characters from the far corners of history and...

First of all, that character is a demon, not a vampire, and despite my intentions, not actually a lesbian. And secondly... yeah, I was just having fun with that. And it came out awesome. I have plans for that book. Sequels to write. But that's not what we're talking about, Joseph. Let's get back to business.

The book I am going to self-publish is a young adult novel called "Smashing." I've been working on it for a long, long time. Nine years, off-and-on. It's the book I always thought was my gateway into success. It's a project I have loved very, very deeply. Almost reverently.

But a funny thing happened during those nine years. A little while ago, I think I feel out of love with the idea of writing YA lit. My brain stopped going to young narrators with existential anguish and a desire to tell me about their first loves. I found other things I wanted to write, more fantasy-oriented lit. Magic and aliens, witches, demons, and ghosts. Those kinds of stories are currently jumping around in my head. And that's awesome, because, I feel like I finally have a focus.

Yet, I want something to show for all of the effort I put into Smashing. I want to say, "see, all those workshops I went to with this manuscript and the writer's groups I worked with, and those classes I took to make this book, they paid off." I want to have something I can point to and be proud to have done. Shutting the book away in a drawer as a "lesson learned," about what I really want to write is for... a century without the ability to easily self-publish. I believe in this book. It's really good. And I want it out in the world.

So now I'm in the research and development phase of self-publishing. I am researching my options for how to get it out there and developing them by spending great gobs of money. Because despite the idea that I could click a few buttons and put my work out there "for free," self-publishing is big business. The costs of editors and graphic designers and book designers add up fast. 

Because of course I can't half-ass it into the world of self-publishing. I'm jumping into the deep-end. And that means I'm going to do everything I can to promote it, including writing this blog. 

I know, right?

Anyhow, so, stay tuned to this recently revived blog for more updates, especially as I get closer to publishing the book. It's kind of big deal, and I'm genuinely excited for it. 

Tough Love

I had one heck of a weird dream this morning. I say this morning, because I'd woken from a fitful sleep about 4:30, looked at the clock, did the world's most ungraceful flop to my other side, and fell into a sleep so deep, I'm not even sure I'm awake now, 3 cups of coffee later.

This is what I dreamed about, because, it's too weird not to broadcast.

I was with my family outside a theater, waiting to go in. I don't think we were there intentionally, we were just milling around, looking for something to do, and there happened to be a show. I think my dad must have gone off to buy tickets, because although I was with everyone, then I was alone, and sort of carried by the crowd into a small amphitheater. It was indoors, steep, and very white. At the edge of the theater was a court jester. Like a very tall, think man in a very exaggerated red and black outfit, complete with belled hat....

Oh shut up, Ryan Gosling. I supported you when you went through that floppy hair 90s post-Mickey Mouse phase. Might I remind you....

So there.

Now, where was I?

Okay, I wandered through the jester-guarded door,  and I was in a much different theater, also an amphitheater, but instead of white concrete, it was a sort of various tiers, some segmented by walls that blocked half the view of the stage. In the back there's sort of a patio area where I saw a friend of mine and her husband sitting in tall bar chairs under an umbrella.

You know, you are the worst, Ryan Gosling. This is my blog! I will write whatever I choose.

But there were midget acrobats and the Easter Bunny and cans of cat food covered in sprinkles and, and, and....

Oh crap, you're right, this is boring. It's just that dreams that involved always leave me feeling off, like there's something I need to know that I didn't get, and examining them sometimes helps. Although of course, that means I'm looking for symbols in nonsense. Curse you, Gosling. 

No. Dammit.

Thanks, Ryan Gosling. That helps.

I Return from Blog Exile... and share a story I may never live down

Ahhh, vacation. Restful, peaceful, tropical vacation.

I just got back from the Bahamas, specifically, the Atlantis resort on Paradise Island. All in all, it was great vacation, it just got off to a rough start. And had a small, somewhat significant bump in the middle. But over all, believe me, I don't regret it at all. Was it worth the price? Uhmmm, jury is still out. Still, on the scale of one to awesome, this falls significantly in the "oh my god I just saw a boy band" category (that's good).

Way back when, I had planned to take my fat ass to Scotland this year to go on ghost tours. Specifically, the cheesier, the more improbable, the better. But, it was not to be. First of all, when I knew I could go, money-wise, I couldn't get the vacation time. And then, the friend I planned to travel with had a wedding in the Bahamas come up. And two trips in one year, not possible. So she suggested I go along with her to the Atlantis Resort.

I love TV, so, naturally, I knew all about this place from that holy messenger of pop culture, commercials. It looked warm, tropical, and like a vacation should. So I agreed.

Some planning, some excellent flight finding (if I do say so myself), a few changes of plans, and then, tada, we finally arrived.

Well, sort of....

First, I ended up in the Emergency Room. I took two of my cousins to Six Flags. Ten minutes away, I started to get car sick. By the time we got in line, made it through the turnstiles and into the park itself, I was in rough shape. Seriously, like I couldn't catch my breath because I was just in pain. I was exhausted and hot and dehydrated, I guess, but mostly, just Bad News Bears.

So the only ride I got that day was in the ambulance. An IV connection in my arm, a dozen leads for a heart monitor stuck to me, but hooked up to neither IV nor heart monitor, I was dropped in a waiting room, and, uhm, left there. 4 hours, a nap in a wheelchair, and a bottle of orange PowerAide later, my family came to rescue me (and get the kids out Six Flags). I hadn't been seen, but, mysteriously, was feeling a lot better. A nap and some electrolytes will do that, I suppose. And since there was no sign that I was going to be seen anytime soon, I decided to go.

I was still in pain, but, another 4 hour nap at home, and that pain was a whole lot less. So I decided to risk it and head to the Bahamas next morning as planned (after some late night packing).

Sure enough, by 6 a.m.,  I was just fine.

Two flights and a sketchy cab ride later, we arrived. We checked in rather painlessly. And then....

Found the grossest hotel room ever.

Old takeout containers littered the tables, piles of sheets and towels were everywhere, garbage, and a random old shoe. Erin took pictures, so if she posts them somewhere, I'll snag them. Just picture a crack house shoved inside of a hotel room with an ocean view.

Yeah, it was that bad.

One angry, much transferred call to the housekeeping later I got this response: "Why'd they put you in that room? It says right here it's dirty!"

Which meant a trip to the concierge desk. Thankfully, the woman at the desk went up to the room with us and saw the mess. She offered us a generous credit toward our room, and switched us to a room with a view of... the roof. You could see the ocean, but just a sliver of it. Mostly, just a roof. But it was clean, and pretty comfortable, so, we agreed to stay there with the idea that we would switch the next afternoon to a room with an ocean view.

We ended up with a view of the whole freaking place, including the ocean. It was amazing. Like, at one point I stood on the balcony and just said out loud, "How did I end up here?" We over looked the sting ray pool, so one morning I sat there and drank coffee and watched them swim. It was awesome. I mean, I sweat my boobs off, but it was one hell of a view.

I tagged along to the rehearsal dinner and the wedding with Erin. It was a beautiful wedding. Outdoors, near the ocean with a backdrop of archways from an old cloister. In the sunshine (no shade). In August. In the Caribbean. I have not sweat that much, ever. And I'm a sweaty girl. Thankfully, I bought an ugly pink hat that kept the worst of the sun off of me. But Little Baby Jesus as my witness, it was hot. (Also, the bride's dress/hair/makeup and choice in bridesmaid dresses all get an A+ for exceptional taste).

The reception was, again, outside in August, but so much fun. Honestly. I was honored to be invited, and it was a heck of a party. The Bahama Mamas were plentiful. (Note to self: no more Bahama Mamas. My stomach and that much fruit juice and alcohol do not mix!). The dancing was a blast. And they had a mashed potato bar. In martini glasses! Food is infinitely more fun when served in fun glassware. It's a fact.

The Atlantis is so big I didn't even get to 1/2 of it in the 4 days I was there. I didn't swim with dolphins or even ride the water slides. I sat by the pool. And floated in the lazy river. And drank frozen, fruity things. And walked and walked and walked and walked.

And I got dragged along the bottom of the rapid river, lost my glasses and was pretty sure I was going to emerge from said water feature both blind and naked.

Yeah, it was not my finest moment.

The rapid river ride is so much fun. Until the point where I was upended from my tub, dragged along the cement bottom by the current, gasping for breath, and absolutely sure my suit was going to be ripped to shreds, I was giggling and having a great time. But damn, that ending was painful.

I stopped by a lifeguard who told me my glasses would just "float by," but of course they didn't. I was hard-core panicking at this point. I had no back up pair. Some nice person I spoke with while fumbling my way out of the pool pointed me toward the towel hut, where I was able to freak out about not having my glasses. They were in the process of getting someone to swim the river and look for them, when Erin emerged from the fog (my own, it was perfectly sunny out), with my glasses in hand. Someone had found them, and Erin, having seen me standing by the lifeguard stand in the middle of my freak-out, knew they were mine.

Crisis averted. My swimsuit, if not my dignity, was in tact. Glasses a little more scratched then they were before, but I needed new ones anyway. My elbow is the only other evidence of my tangle with the rapid river ride. It's sore and has a little red oval scratch. Otherwise, no damage.

Little hiccups like this one didn't ruin my vacation. In fact, in retrospect, I find it pretty funny. I mean, at the time I was a mess, but now, the whole image just makes me laugh. It was otherwise, a peaceful, lovely vacation, with a friend who did not annoy me.

Ability to travel with a friend is always key. Sometimes, travel can make or break a friendship (think, Brenda and Kelly from 90210 in France). Don't do it right, and someone is putting on a fake French accent and boozing it up with a 90s pretty boy.  You don't want that.

After 4 days it was time to go home. It wasn't really hard to leave because it began to rain Monday morning, and there's significantly less to do in the rain. And frankly, paying less than $3 for coffee again was something of a relief.

I don't take pictures, so here's some stock photos I stole from the internet to give you an idea of where I was:

I am a quirky brunette who wears glasses, so I find this picture both perfectly appropriate to represent both me and my outrageously-out-of-proportion-with-reality mood.

And seriously, if you have soft pretzels, place them on a plate, put that plate on the ground, slide it toward me, and run for the hills, because I will pounce on that nonsense like a hungry lion after a weak gazelle. Include a Diet Coke and I won't chase you down after I've devoured my soft pretzel. Although all bets are off if you do any of the above actions while asking me a stupid question, such as "Why do I have to do this?" or "Where is the non-fiction section?"

Honestly.

I really am not sure why. Probably because I'm in a little bit in pain, and my hair doesn't have any bounce, and it's freaking freezing outside even though it is the 23rd of April. And maybe I'm just tired and tired of being broke.

Oh I don't know, My Imaginary Boston Terrier. I'm just not fit to be around people today.
Also, I'd like someone to buy me this Vacation to Iceland.

So, bad things happened last week.

Work was cancelled on Friday because of the "public safety emergency," i.e., the manhunt for the suspects in the Marathon bombing. And although I was well outside the lock-down zone, I didn't feel like I was able to leave my apartment. I woke up to a flurry of concerned texts asking me where I was, and one informing me about work being closed. So of course, I turned on the news. From that moment on, I couldn't seem to turn off the television. For much of the day it wasn't changing. It just kept cycling through what happened on Thursday evening, the faces of the victims, the timeline of how events went down, and the fact that the "shelter-in-place" order was still in effect for the Boston metro area. There were no interruptions in the coverage for what happened in West, Texas or any other part of the world. Not even a break for the weather report.

A handful of my friends were closer to what was going on. They were in Boston, stuck inside. Like I said, I wasn't, but I might as well have been. I was just tense all day. Around 3 in the afternoon, my mom showed up and took me out for a late lunch (I'd been so obsessed watching the news I hadn't eaten anything). I spent the rest of the afternoon with my parents, watching the same news, but it was somehow better to be around them then by myself. Just as my dad was taking me home, they announced they'd captured the second suspect.  I thought once they made that announcement I would literally breath easier, but...not so much. In a way, a handful of normal days later, I can still feel a lingering tension in the air.

Maybe it will get better when they know why the bombings happened, or whom else, if anyone might be involved. Maybe once there are more vigils, more acknowledgement of the victims both living and not, more tributes by sports teams and 70s icons. I'm not sure. I hope that the city, and everyone involved, heals quickly.

Last night, a small group of friends got together for a potluck. We all had "I was stuck inside" stories. So we swapped stories, ate an obscene amount of pasta (we had some yummy peanut pasta, stuffed shells, and mac & cheese as our main dishes), and played a dozen plus rounds of "Cards Against Humanity." Because there's nothing like a little gallows humor to make everyone feel better.

I did not win millions in the lottery this weekend, so today I went back to my jobs. Sigh. It continually amazes me that my life plan to win the PowerBall and retire to a private island with my own giraffe has not come to pass.

Because, really, I would rock at being an eccentric millionaire. I would do all kinds of crazy things, like fund a flight to Mars for a group of penguins, and market a line of Melissa dolls, which would be like Barbie dolls without the ridiculous measurements, but with the set of unrealistic career expectations (make money as a writer! ha.) Whirlwind trip around the world to buy a jar of Nutella in every conceivable country? I'll get my spoon.

I think everyone probably has that mental list of things they'd do with a lot of money. Whenever the jackpots for the lottery get really big, that's all anyone talks about. It's lots of "I'd buy a house for every member of my family," and "I'd pay off all my debts." I like to keep my expectations just a bit higher.

Which is my long-winded way of saying, I've been thinking a lot about money lately. I feel like I'm on the verge of being a lot more financially solvent, but... just not right now. Soon. I can see the light at the end of proverbial tunnel. It's weak, but it's there.

Since I doubt I'll find myself rolling around in piles of money anytime soon, I've been thinking practically. Little house. Little dog. One job, not two.

I've gotten some big debts down to an amount where I can see that I'll be free of them within a year. My school debt will hang around my neck like a loadstone until I'm chasing old men around my nursing home on my motorized scooter, but that's what I get for having the presumption to be a sorta-smart girl in a country where higher education is a business, not a right. I can live with that. The other stuff, not so much.

However, I contend, all this practical thinking is totally at war with my character, which insists that I was meant for bigger, infinitely sillier things. Like building the world's most extravagant tree house, complete with waterslides and a perpetual supply of puppies to play with when the mood strikes.

Melissa's Christmas Movie Guide, Part One (You're welcome)

Sweet, holy goldfish, it's nearly December. That means precisely one thing: Christmas movies have been on air for a month, and I've missed so freaking many.  I've been busy with the two jobs, so I've had to prioritize in my terrible Christmas movie watching, cutting out many fine Hallmark Channel features staring 90s television superstars. It's been difficult, I won't lie. I mean, I've seen most of them before but that's not the point.

There are a few I absolutely will not miss, year after year, the first being the seminal made-for-television "Smoky Mountain Christmas" starring the one and only Dolly Parton. It's so good. So good.

Let me share the joy with you: First of all, this classic originated in 1986. So it's the 1980s in all it's wonderful, teased up hair glory (not that Dolly is all that different today; side note, I adore her). It opens with a musical number, of course, a synthesized, peppy number that 1, does not match either the words or melody of the song, and 2, makes me realize that fashion in 1986 and 2012 are spot-on similar. (All I'm saying is there are a lot of high-waisted skinny jeans tucked into boots and big sunglasses.) Whatever, Dolly is doing a music video (remember those? No? Sad).

Dolly is playing country superstar "Lorna Davis" who desperately needs a break from L.A. and the papprazzi following her. So she asks an old friend for a cabin in the Smoky Mountains and heads out, but not before a paparazzo breaks in, snaps some pictures of her house and intended destination, and makes a mess of her gloriously pink Versailles-style boudoir.

Lorna's agent immediately believes she's kidnapped. As you do.

And of course, the paparazzo is also headed to the mountains to spy on her for his front page story.

Think you know the plot? Convinced it's about a superstar who yearns for the simple joys of home? Well you didn't count on the greatest plot decive known to man, the Plot Moppet. And this movie has not one, BUT SEVEN. Yes, that's right, on Lorna's first night in the cabin seven precocious runaway orphans wake her from a sound sleep assuming she's an angel!

I know it just keeps getting better.

But wait, I forgot something! Oh my god, there's a backwoods witch too. I swear to you, on Lorna's way up to the cabin she gets stopped by a local smarmy sheriff who just happens to have a nasty ex-girlfriend who is a witch, who immediately wants to put a curse on her. Wait, proof:

 

Yeah, that just happened.

 

Okay, back to the wonderfulness. Lorna, instead of, oh, I don't know, calling the Department of Family and Child Services, decides that she and orphans can bunk together through Christmas. The orphans have secrets, just like Lorna, so it's all okay. They live in terror of "Mountain Dan," who is, get this, LEE FREAKING MAJORS, who roams through the mountains on horseback looking like, well, Lee Majors.

 

Shiver a little, it's okay. Television in the 80s was a gift that just keeps on giving, you know?

 

Things are going well. Lorna and the Plot Moppets are bonding. They love her. She loves them. Their bowl haircut, overall-wearing ring-leader even agrees that she isn't so bad. But there's trouble! That witch is still in play, and she nearly lores Lorna to her death. Mountain Dan to the rescue! Mountain Dan has apparently been keeping an eye on the kids. He too, apparently, does not believe in calling the authority on children living alone in the wilderness. I guess the 80s really were a simpler time.

 

But, as is inevitable, their comfy coze in the cabin must come to an end. It begins when Lorna takes one of the little moppets to town to treat a fever. And since the witch is unhappy, and the smarmy sheriff is under her thumb, Lorna is followed back to the cabin by the local fuzz where the kids are taken into custody.

 

Except, Oh NO! Six of Seven end up in kiddie jail, watched over by two mean old ladies who do not believe in Christmas. All hope is not lost, though, as Lorna, Mountain Dan and the Paparazzo who has been wondering around the mountains for the last 80 minutes concoct a daring rescue plan involving them being dressed as Santa and his elf. 

 

Although, as you might expect, things do not go totally smoothly and they all get hauled before Judge Jack Tripper to explain their actions (seriously, it's John Ritter). Judge Jack Tripper wants to get home for Christmas, and so, in no time at all, Lorna is granted custody of the orphans, and it all ends happily.

 

So let's recap: Beautiful woman, hated by a witch, runs away to remote cabin with seven dwarves...er, orphans, who immediately love her. And you thought "Once Upon a Time" was so freaking clever.

 

Anyhow, just when you think this movie could not possibly get better, you learn that it was directed by Henry Winkler, Fonzie himself.  I think of that fact as the one that just cements the deal of this being one of the greatest bad Christmas movies of all time.

 

Smoky Mountain Christmas has repeated airings this time of year. I would hightly recommend you watch it if you ever hope to be my friend.