INSANE-DITTY

  

HELP! 

I’m going insane!

Just a few minutes ago, I passed my closet and saw something shiny on the sleeve of one of my hoodies.

Curious, I looked at it.

It was a medical wristband like the kind they put on you when you’re admitted to the hospital with your name, birth date, doctor, and the date of admission. 

The date said 7-25-09.

That was just a few months ago.

BUT. . .I DON’T REMEMBER BEING IN THE HOSPITAL ON THAT DATE!!!

My stomach knotted as I ran and got my date book and opened it up to July 25^th.

Nothing!

I stared at the date, my heart racing now. What in the hell? 

And that’s when I realized.  I must be going nuts!

Or have been nuts for a while.

Obviously, I was in the hospital somewhere with some condition on 7-25-09 and since then have blotted it out of my brain.

Am I a schizophrenic?

Do I have multiple personalities like Sybil, when one of her personalities did things that the others didn’t know about?

Is that what’s happening to me?

I suddenly felt like I was in my own noir movie, you know, the kind wherethe lead character finds clues that the life they think they know doesn’t really exist. And there’s really a deeper, darker existence that they’re living in.

I was going to call my daughter and ask her delicately if she knew what I was doing on July 25^th, but decided against it. She already thinks I’m getting Alzheimers. I don’t need to promote that idea.

Then I was going to call my friend. But then I wondered, maybe she’s not really my friend after all. Maybe she’s a nurse and in my mentally confused state of mind I call her “friend?”

No, I had to figure this mystery out myself. I had to think while my brain was at least in the present, before it slipped back into a blank mental state.

OK, the wristband was on the arm of a sweatshirt.

Which was odd. 7-25-09  was the dead of summer. Why would I wear a sweatshirt when it was 85 degrees and higher everyday?

Hmm?

Degrees. Something about degrees is ringing a bell.

Wait a minute!

It’s coming to me . . .

Slowly . . .

Yes . . . 

OK!  

FEVER!

I had a fever on July 25^th!  Because of strep throat. Yes! I remember now. It was a Saturday. My doctor’s office was closed and being delirious with a raging sore throat, fever and my body racked with pain, I went to a new urgent care a few miles away.

And then before the doctor saw me, the nurse put this informational wristband on me. I remember thinking at the time (which was difficult due to my fever) that it was odd that an urgent care center would put one of these wristbands on me. I then went home and collapsed in bed slept for a whole day and a half. 

LOL!  LOL!   LOL!

Silly me.

Guess my writer’s mind went into overdrive for just a moment.

Glad I didn’t tell anyone.

Especially my daughters.

Always,

Em-Musing

ON GOLDEN PONDER

This past weekend, at my writer group’s brainstorming retreat, questions were asked like, when’s the best time for you to write—morning, afternoon, late night, after sex?” How much can you write per sitting—a hundred words, a few pages, anything? And how much time do you devote—an hour, two, or whatever you can steal from the day? And so forth and so on.

And being a writer, I do have to eek out time to write before the day gets hold of my schedule and I’ve got  a thousand other things to do. And my time is early in the morning. 

I must say though—knock on wood—that I’ve never suffered from writer’s block.

Maybe because of the method I’ve devised. I call it my "golden plan."

I liken it to a woman’s bladder.

Every woman who is either middle-aged and/or has had at least one kid knows that their bladder, being subjected to time, gravity, and the birthing process, becomes leaky plumbing.

And, as most women who have this condition know that whenever you're out and about, you never NEVER pass up a bathroom.

Why, men might ask?

Because we leaky women never know when the next bathroom will be. An hour later? Two? Or heaven forbid—right now!

And, as all leaky women also know, when we use the bathroom, even if we don’t have to go at the moment, eventually, if we sit long enough, something comes out.

And that’s my golden plan.

Every morning I just sit at my laptop, even if I don’t really have any thoughts or ideas just yet, but if I sit and ponder long enough, eventually something comes out.

Of my brain that is.

 Not the most sophisticated method, but it works.

 Always, Em, musing

CONCENTRATION

PHENOMENAL WEEKEND!

It was the annual brainstorming retreat of my writer group. Over the course of three days, ten women (at different times), stayed at a cottage up in Michigan on a lake. A very “concentrated” affair.

And I use the word concentrate because all the definitions apply.

1)  think intensely about something: to focus all of your thoughts on one subject

2.  devote efforts to one thing: to direct attention, time, and resources to one particular   

     area or activity, 

3.  cluster together: to bring things together in the same place or area, or to come together

     in the same place 

Yes, very concentrated.

Problem was—I couldn’t concentrate.

For the life of me, I couldn’t stay with any of the brainstorming ideas for more than a few minutes. At least fifteen different works-in-progress were hashed out. The genres ranged from romantic suspense, to historical, to women’s fiction, to erotica, to inspirational, to paranormal, to LBGT.  The ideas flew around the room like wild monkeys in a cage.

And a few times, a fantastic idea actually flew through my head but then . . .

WHOOSH!

Gone!

And all I was left with were meaningless mutterings.

I felt like a kid with ADD.

And that’s when a thought finally landed. All this brainstorming reminded me of the children’s ditty, Ten Little Monkeys.

            Ten women writers bouncing ideas                   

            Fleshing out plots for their W-I-P’s

            One said something funny that started them laughing

            And they never stopped till they started packing

OK, so I’m not a poet, but you get the idea—it was a great productive weekend! I'm so glad I’m part of the MVRWA writer group.

Always, Em-Musing

OUTTA SPACE

I bought two watermelons at Costco a few weeks ago. Not that I needed two, but that’s how Costco packaged them—two cantaloupe-sized watermelons in a stretchy, net-type bag. When I got them home, I wanted to put them into the refrigerator, but there wasn’t any room no matter how I rearranged the shelves so I had to leave them out on my counter. Not long after, I went to my friends’ house for my Corn/Butterfest dinner I mentioned in my last post.

Four hours later, I left her house full, buttery, and a bit tipsy. What can I say? Two beers, I’m a lightweight!

However, I did have decaf coffee after dinner so perhaps I was more tired than tipsy.

Anyway, back home, I went into my kitchen to take my nighttime herbal supplements. When I stepped past my counter heading towards the sink to get a glass of water, I noticed something strange happening to the watermelons.

        

Foam was oozing out of them.

        

Lots of foam!

I tried to remmber if I had had my kitchen sponge over there earlier. But I knew I hadn’t. And even if I had, why would the soap foam still be foaming? I also knew that the foam on my sponge wasn’t even that foamy the last time I used it. What was happening?

        

And then a thought popped into my head! ALIENS!

Like in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers when aliens came to earth in pods!

OK, OK. My imagination was getting away from me.

But in the original 1956 movie starring Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter, aliens came to earth in pods that reproduced people and then took over their minds and their memories.

There were also two remakes of this move. One in 1978 with Donald Sutherland, Jeff Goldblum, and Leonard Nimoy. And the last one in 2007 with Nicole Kidman. I saw them both.

Perhaps it’s just the writer in me, but I wasn’t comfortable going to sleep with two oozing watermelons in my kitchen.

And even if there weren’t aliens in the watermelons that wanted to reproduce me, I was afraid I might have nightmares. Or at the very least, I probably wouldn’t get a good night sleep. So, off to the dumpster I took those foaming watermelons. HA! No more aliens or whatever the heck was making the watermelons foam.

If anyone has a clue about why my watermelons were foaming, clue me in please. Otherwise I may never buy another watermelon again.

Always, Em-Musing

SIMPLY BUTTAH!

After watching the movie, Julia & Julie, I realized that I’m not only in love with Meryl Streep, but I’m in love with butter.

           

Julia Child and her husband Paul both lived to be in their early nineties. I’d bet my arteries that they ate butter every day. So, there’s proof that butter can’t be all that bad.

           

And the taste?

Well, no oleo can compare.

           

In fact, I haven’t eaten margarine for at least two decades now. I don’t know if it’s just an urban legend, but when I heard the story that flies won’t land on margarine I was convinced that I would never put something in my mouth that a fly wouldn’t touch. I mean flies like poop for heaven’s sake!

           

Anyway, a few weeks ago, after I had seen Julia & Julie the first time, I had dinner with a friend and her husband at their house. I volunteered to bring the main course. I have a tradition that when the crops of local corn come in, I prepare a feast in honor of the harvest. But it’s more than just a corn dinner. I also make crab and shrimp. And the only thing I allow with the meal is French bread and beer. No salad, no side dish. No nothing. And the only thing we can drink is beer.(except kids of course). Not wine. Not soda. Not water.  Simple and delicious!

           

So, with bag of king crab legs, two dozen pink Key West shrimp in hand, and a dozen ears of corn, I arrived at my friend's house. I steamed the crab on their grill using a pan barely filled with water. I then put the shrimp into a sizzling pan filled with melted butter, oregano, lemon juice, garlic, and a splash of beer. My friend made some Pillsbury French bread, and truthfully, for being refrigerated dough, it’s damn good. I mean it's quick, easy, and the aroma alone that fills the air is worth ignoring that it’s a packaged food.

           

A half hour later, there we were, swirling the crab meat into melted butter and slurping it in our mouths, sinking our teeth into the buttery seasoned shrimp and the corn on the cob slathered with butter, and then smearing our warm bread with butter, all topped it all off with icey cold Modelo beer.

           

HEAVEN!

           

And then my friend’s teenage daughter had an astute observation (amazing that her frontal cortex was capable of that). “Everything tonight involves butter.”

           

My friend and I looked at each other, our mouths, chin, and cheeks shiny and greasy with melted butter, and burst out laughing. She was absolutely right. It was as if everything we ate tonight was just a prop to put butter on.

           

So, next year, I’m not going to call my dinner a corn-fest, but BUTTER-FEST.

And hell! Why wait till next year?

           

I can have a BUTTER-FEST all year long!

And then I got to thinking. I'm a writer. One day I will be published. And I eat butter.

My life? Simply buttah!

Always, Em-Musing

CRY BABY

“Oh boo hoo!”

That’s what Julia Child said in the movie, Julia & Julie when her cookbook was rejected. I love that attitude!  I’ll have to Google it and see if it’s true.

Guess it doesn’t matter though whether Julia Child actually said it or not because Meryl Streep said it and that’s good enough for me.

So, from now on, that’s what I’m going to say to future rejection letters, “OH BOO HOO!”

I’ve had my share of rejection letters with my first manuscript which is a supernatural thriller. Back then, I used to go into a mini mode of combined shock, hurt, frustration, and fear. Then I'd do a couple of shots of tequila. And it worked. I calmed down, put everything into perspective, and life was good.

Except I couldn’t drive for the rest of the day.

But now, with Julia’s attitude, I’m just going to open the envelope or email, read what it says and shout, OH BOO HOO!

Then I’m going to go up into my office, and depending on what the query said, either get another letter ready to send out, or—revise!

Cripes! Whenever I do get a letter requesting a partial (or dare I dream—a full) I’m going to have to change the boo hoo to WOO HOOOOOOOO!

And Lord, let that be SOO HOOOOOOOON!

Always, Em-Musing 

POP GOES MY PLEASURE

I went again to see Julia & Julie.  Again!

Yeah, yeah, I know. I could have seen a movie I haven’t seen yet. But, what can I say? I love that movie. And Meryl Streep. And Julia Child. And Amy Adams.

It would have been a perfect afternoon except for one distraction.

My friend sitting next to me.

I invited her to go with me because she was my only friend who hadn’t already seen the movie.

I hesitated inviting her because she always likes to sit at the highest row in the theater.

The only thing more irritating than sitting in the first row, is sitting in the highest last row.

But thankfully, she had foot surgery.

Not I’m thankful she had foot surgery, but this time she couldn’t climb too many steps. And so we sat mid-level. Perfect.

Except for one thing. The popcorn.

If there's one thing I hate more than sitting stupidly at the movies, it's someone who mooches my popcorn. When I actually break down and buy my popcorn (versus eating something I’ve snuck in my purse), I want to eat all of the popcorn all by myself.

And it especially irritates me when someone mooches my popcorn after I've offered to buy that person their own popcorn.

“I’m getting popcorn. Want some?” I asked my friend.

“No thanks.”

“Sure? I’ll treat.”

“No, no. I just had lunch.”

And so, after settling in our seats, we began watching what was already on the screen. The movie?

HA!

No, fifteen, yes count ‘em fifteen commercials! Why am I paying a premium price for a movie ticket and then have to be subjected to commercials that I see on TV?  Not fair! I wanted to throw my popcorn at the screen, but at $5.00 a small bag, I thought the popcorn would be better served in my stomach rather than on the floor.

Anyway, so there I was sitting in the comfy seat, the movie finally starting, the smell of greasy butter wafting up from my small bag, and my hand poised over the bag, when my friend leaned in towards me and said, “Mmm. That smells good.”

I knew it!

She wanted some of my popcorn. If I didn’t make my thoughts clear a few paragraphs back, let me say it right here and now—I HATE SHARING MY POPCORN!

My husband used to pull this same trick on me when I was still living with him and we’d go to the movies.

“Want some popcorn?” I’d ask on my way to the counter to buy a bag.

“No! I don’t want to spend the money on a bag of popcorn. It’s a crime what they charge.”

No, the real crime was him wanting my popcorn after he bitched about it.

Cripes! I thought I got rid of that problem when I got rid of him. But now I have the same problem with my friend. I don’t really want to get rid of a friend over a bag of popcorn.

And that leaves me with a dilemma. What is the protocol for sharing popcorn with a friend who, after I offered to buy them their own, wants some of mine?

I guess just do the right thing and ask, and then hope they’ll be good to their word.

“Would you like some?” I ask my friend.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, her hands cupped for a good-sized portion.

Damn it!

And so I poured and she settled back in her seat.

But no sooner had I eaten a few kernels, relishing each one so my bag would last the entire movie, when she leans in again, hands empty.

Damn it!  She wants more?

“Let me go get you a bag,” I offer again.

“No, no. That’s OK.  I ate before I came here.”

No, NO!  It’s not OK. If you ate before you came here, then you shouldn’t want my popcorn, I want to say to her.

“It just smells so good. Can I have a little bit more?” she laughed.

I'm glad she's happy because I am not amused.

“Sure.”

Annoyed, I poured what was left of my popcorn into her hand and vowed that the next time I go to the movie, I’ll:  1) Either go by myself (which won’t be much fun).

       2) I’ll eat before going so I won’t be hungry.

       3) Learn not to be so stingy, or

      4) Stay home and write. And I always love to share what I write.

Always, Em-Musing

FREEDOM WRITING

I feel I should explain my writing style to those of you reading this blog. Especially those readers who have an internal editor playing in the back of your brain.

TURN IT OFF!

Because the writing in this blog will drive you nuts. I use “so and well” a lot. I don’t always spell check, or check my grammar. Many times, I’ll use tired and overused clichés. I also start sentences with “and” and “but” and other conjunctions. I use phrases habitually. I italicize frequently. Emphasize using caps regularly. And (shock) I use adverbs ending with "ly" really, really often. 

But (See? I just used a conjunction), I’ve found a freedom in writing like this.

And (See? I did it again), do you want to know why? Because I’ve locked up my inner critic. Yes! I've put her in literary prison and I’ve freed Em my muse and she's in charge now. My inner critic will no longer be able to tell me what I’ve written is crap.

At least not in this blog.

Oh, wow! What freedom!

Do you feel the freedom?

If you’re a writer, you have to feel the freedom in this kind of writing, don’t you? 

So, to all you writers reading this, go ahead, lock-up your inner critic and let your muse out! 

Always, Em-Musing.

P.S. And to all agents who might peruse my blog please note: I have read The Elements of Style by Strunk White and I can assure you that the writing in my novels is cleaner and won't drive you nuts.

FAT CHANCE

I found a cheap and easy way to get fuller lips without collagen.

Just get your favorite coffee from Starbucks or any coffeehouse you prefer. Then forget that the coffee is scalding hot, and now take a sip.

FU#$%*0-!!!!!

Then . . .

VOILA!

Instant fat, red lips!

It’s a perfect combination--fat lips and a cup of Joe for the same price.

Perfect except for the occasional blister or two.

And the pain.

I especially have to remember never to do this at a writer's convention when I have to pitch to an agent. It's bad enough trying to talk with a dry mouth from nerves. I don't need to add pain to that scenario.

Always,

Em-Musing

ACCIDENTAL HOUSE GUEST

Being a house guest and trying to fit into another family’s schedule is, to say the least, stressful. Thankfully, I bring energy bars so I can eat whenever I’m hungry. Being hypoglycemic, I’m always prepared.

I also bring a flask of tequila. Never know when I might need a shot.

Then there’s trying to fit my irregularity into the family’s regular schedule of morning showers, evening baths and brushing teeth. Not even my own package of wipes could make that flow easier.

But then, the night before leaving for home, the worst, worst, WORST thing to happened to me. I got sick.

I’m talking the body releasing its contents kind of sick.

I laid there on the hard, lumpy pull-out bed wondering if dying would feel worse when I felt movement. Outward movement in both directions!

Racing off the lumps, I whizzed past the 6-year-old pajama clad twins, and “made it” just in time. Whew! Thankfully, whatever ailed me was out of me in one fell swoop.  

Getting back in bed, wondering why in the hell did this have to happen to me, I was at least thankful that the worst was over.

Not!

“Lulu is sick,” my friend said the next morning coming into the bedroom I was staying in.

Lulu is my host’s fat English bulldog.

“She ate something,” my friend continued.

“Oh, too bad,” I said looking for the underwear I threw on the floor last night. “Maybe she has what I had last night? Not that I know “what” I had.”

“My son said he saw Lulu sniffing around in your bedroom last night.”

“Really?”

Hmm? Where in the hell is my underwear? I looked under the bed. Behind the suitcase.

“Yeah, he said she sometimes gets into the twins stuffed animals and chews and eats them.”

Now I really wanted to find my underwear—my leopard thong underwear—because the bedroom I was staying in is the twin’s playroom filled with stuffed animals. Even if the dog hadn’t chewed and eaten them, I didn’t want the twins to happen upon my thong after I was gone.

“What are you looking for?” my friend asked.

“My underwear,” I answered, my eyes scanning a bin of stuffed jungle animals.

“You’ve lost your underwear?”

“Yeah, I changed them last night. Guess I was too sick to notice where I threw them.”

My friend just glared at me. Usually she and I will find things to make us laugh like loons.

There was nothing funny about this scenario.  

An hour later—SANS MY LEOPARD THONG—we were heading north back to Ohio.  

I just knew that in a day or two, my friend’s son was going to call and tell her either:  

1) the dog passed a wad of leopard print, or

2) his twins found a stinky leopard print thong in their playroom.

The twelve-hour ride home was tedious. Not even trying to come up with a title for my second novel could alleviate the stress of anticipating my friend's reaction when her son called with the news.

Thankfully though, the universe was on my side this time. When I was emptying my suitcase, I found my thong stuffed in a zippered compartment. Right then and there I vowed that the next time I go anywhere, I’m staying at a hotel.

No matter what the price, it’s worth it!

Always, Em-Musing

TWO DEGREES AWAY FROM COMFORT

Besides being a creature of habit, I’ve come to realize that I’m a creature of comfort.

I stayed at a friend’s son and his wife’s home in Atlanta while my friend and I worked a trade show for four days. It's inconvenient enough staying at a friend or relative’s house—at least there’s some comfort there because you know them. But I’m two degrees removed from my comfort zone.

I used to brag that I have no back problems. For a woman “my age” I’m thankful that my body is strong and limber.

But I woke up that first morning knowing something was horribly wrong when I rolled over to get out of bed and was in pain. Then when I got out of bed, I couldn't stand straight. I hobbled down to breakfast looking like a garden gnome hunched over and limping.

"How did you sleep?" my friend and her son asked with big grins. Were they blind?

Like I was wrestling with a demon, I wanted to say, but couldn't. After all, I was staying for free.

After breakfast, I went back up to that "thing called a mattress" and rolled my poor body around flailing my legs trying to “pop” whichever vertebrae needed to “pop” back in place. No luck.

The second morning, my hip felt displaced. I don't know if one can "pop" a hip back or not, but I flailed around just in case. No luck.

The third morning, my neck decided to join the fray and gave me a crick in it. I knew no amount of flailing or luck would correct that.

Cripes! One more day and I'd need a wheelchair! Thank heavens for my yoga stretches I did in the shower. I’d be crippled without them!

Yes, there's no place like home.

Home?

HELL!

There's no place like my sweet, sweet, comfortable pillow top mattress.

. . . more travel travails to come

JULIA CHILD REVISIONED

Thank you Nora Ephron for making the movie, Julia & Julie. I saw it a few days ago and I’m still inspired.

This morning, after tweaking my query letter for the first book in the "Em" series, I drank my perfect cup of Trader Joe Bay Blend coffee and watched clips of Julie Child on YouTube. I remember seeing Julia Child years ago when she was really on TV. I used to think she was gangly and weird, but funny.

Now, I’m all a Ga-Ga!

After watching her make Steak Diane, a chocolate mousse cake, talk about the different kinds of chickens that she had sitting up on the counter like poultry puppets, and finally eggs, I went downstairs into my kitchen and, in true Julia Child mode—using my Julia Child voice impersonation—I talked and laughed while I heated my pan with butter. I cracked two eggs into a bowl and whipped them with chopsticks ala Julia Child. Then, doing exactly what Julia said, I poured the eggs into the hot frying pan, shook it back and forth, did a quick jerk of the pan to flip the eggs, and VOILA!

The perfect omelet!

Boy, wish I could heat up my laptop, crack open some great ideas, whip them up in Word a bit, flip on the printer, and VOILA!

The perfect query letter.

HANGING IN HTML

I thought my blog was done.

But it needs more elements, or gadgets and widgets. Or something!

OK, I know that people my age (middle) in order to keep their brains active and young, need to do things like learn to play a musical instrument, take a foreign language, play soduko. Or something!

And maybe I’ll do one of those.

But probably not.

Writing tweaks my brain.

And that I do everyday. Even on holidays. Even when I feel sick.

Well, not puking sick.

And figuring out which agents to send my query to not only tweaks my brain, it puts my cells in overdrive.

But this blog thing! In order to set up my blog do I really have to learn html? Why are the “labels” I’m entering in Hindi?

Why can’t setting up a blog be easier? And yes, I’ve used one of Blogger.com’s templates, but I want to tweak it some more.

And oh, the pressure!

Everyone in the Internet universe who has a blog has had to do this and obviously is/has/and are doing it.

So why is it so strange to me?

I remember when I had to know DOS in order to work on a computer. Yes, I’m that old!

Well, not that old.

And for those of you who do not know what DOS is, here’s the definition from Wikepedia:

MS-DOS (pronounced em-es-dos; short for Microsoft Disk Operating System) is an operating system commercialized by Microsoft. It was the most commonly used member of the DOS family of operating systems and was the main operating system for personal computers during the 1980s.

I actually got my first PC in the early 90’s.

And trust me, DOS was enough of a challenge. I learned it well enough, but I kept thinking, Why can’t they make PC’s like TV’s that you just turn on?


Well, thankfully Microsoft did finally come out with PC’s that you just turn on.

Now when I tell people that I know DOS, it sounds like one of those stories like, “You kids have it so easy nowadays. I use to have to walk ten miles in the snow to get to school.”

Anyway, I’m going to approach this blog like I do my writing. I’m just going to sit down in front of my laptop. My brain will function. My blog will evolve.

Always, Em

P.S. I called a writer friend of mine who blogs and she guided me to go into the Enable Transliteration” box thingy and I disabled Hindi and enabled English.

Wish I could “enable" my brain that easy.

PASSION ATE ME

My love affair with Meryl Streep continues.
I saw Julia & Julie last night—a feast for writers and cooks.
And lovers!
What a movie!
What an actress!
What a concept!
One of the taglines for the movie is, “An inspirational film about finding your passion.”
Isn’t that great? Finding your passion?
It’s a great movie for writers. You get to see how Julia Child struggled trying to get published with her first cook book. Also, how Julie struggled as a writer and then started a blog for a year about her cooking a Julia Child recipe a day.
Both of these women had passions. Julia first had a passion for eating which led her to her passion for cooking which led her to a passion to write a cookbook.
Julie, a writer, played by Amy Adams, had a passion for writing which led her to her passion to cook a Julia Child recipe a day for a year and blog about it. And then she got a book deal.
Wow! Such passion in these women. Eating/cooking/writing/getting published.
I can relate.
I’ve got a big passion for writing.
What I love most about Julia Child though is she had a passion for her husband. How can you have a passion for anything in life and not have a passion for love?
Yeah, I’ve got a passion for love too.
I love to write.

Always, Em

MERYL-LY I WATCH HER

I’m in love with Meryl Streep!
Well, not actually "in love."
I just love watching her act.
I've been reworking a query letter for one of my novels for weeks, and it's making my brain feel like scrambled eggs.
I know, I know!
Crazy, right? Reworking for weeks?
I have no problems writing chapters for my novels. But a query letter? Makes my innards quake.
So, to de-stress and put my mind in a better place, I’ll leave my laptop humming whatever tune electronics hum, go downstairs, turn on the TV to HBO's “video on demand” and order up Mamma Mia. Instantly I feel happy. I love the setting for the movie—Greece! Oh, those blue colors! Wish I could live by water that color. And I love the songs! Wish I could remember all the lyrics when I’m in the shower.
Mostly, I love how Meryl Streep plays Donna in Mamma Mia.
I also love Meryl in Doubt.
And in The Devil Wears Prada.
I particularly love her in Prime. I think she should have won the Oscar for her role in that movie. Specifically when she learns that Uma Thurman is dating her son. That movie also was an HBO “video on demand” movie. I used to order it just to get to see her reaction. Laughed my butt off every time.
I love her in The Bridges of Madison County.
And recently, I saw Out of Africa on one of those cable channels that shows old movies. I’d never seen it before, and I fell in love with her then too.
And I love her in Sophie’s Choice.
It doesn’t matter what role Meryl is playing, I just love to watch her run the gamut of emotions.
Especially when she does it in just a few seconds.
I know you know the saying—you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.
But I’d bet that Meryl Streep could squeeze an emotion out of playing a turnip.

Always, 

Em-Musing

THE BUZZZZZZZZZ

Well, I think I like the look of my blog. 

I ought to. I’ve spent enough time tweaking it 

to have written and published a novel. 

OK, that’s exaggerating. 

But the truth is I feel pressured by all the buzzzzz. 

What buzz you might ask? 

The literary agent buzzzzzzzzzzzz. 

Specifically that all new authors need a presence. 

Well, I’m alive and I write everyday,

but no one knows what I write or who I am. 

And why would they? 

My writing is all on my laptop, safely saved in my Word documents and two flash drives. And I am “solo me o” happily writing in my home office. So at present, that’s the only presence I have. And that’s why I started this blog. I need to build a following. A platform. A miracle! Well, that’s not entirely true. I also need a forum for some of my writing. Lots of thoughts pop into my head and I need to write them somewhere so my brain has room to ruminate on my novels. Most of these thoughts that pop up aren’t appropriate for a chapter in any of my novels, so what else can I do with them? I have to write them and put them somewhere, right? Voila! My blog! I'm hoping things pop in my head often and hoping you pop onto my blog again soon. 

 

Always, Em-Musing