Anniversary Post

It slipped right by me but my year blog anniversary was last week on Feb 4^th. This time last year I was a newly hatched blogger, courtesy of Linda—who had to do everything walk me through the whole start up. Thank you, Linda.

Like most endeavors I undertake, I had no idea what I was getting into. I barely knew what a blog was. I learned as I went; I’m still learning. Like for instance, just today I explored the unchartered territory of blog stats: a seldom used, or cared about, place that tells me how popular I am, what posts generate the most activity, and how ambitious I’ve been with the amount of posts.

Apparently I’ve been a bit sporadic in the latter. March I had one post. July nine. Total, including today, are forty six posts, an average of 3.8 per month. None of this comes as any surprise to me. What surprises me is the most viewed post, and it was completely unrelated to writing: Cake Disasters was it. I wonder if it’s because one of the cakes is named Butt Cake. My search engine stats revealed butt as the word that linked most folks to my blog. Want to view a BUTT? You arrive here and look squarely in the face of an unsightly cake: one that suffered culinaryitis (my new word for cooking mishaps).

I know these poor souls felt like the ole bait and switch had been pulled on them. That they were led, albeit falsely, into a site of not only a bad cook, but a writer of all things. Sorry is all I can say. And sorry again, because I know you’ll be back since I used those words again in this post (Butt it’s not like I called attention to it or anything). Not my fault my cakes look like BUTTS. (discovering stats was not a good thing.)

Probably I should give the benefit of the doubt. Maybe these aren’t pervs but perhaps cake decorators who just happened upon my site. If so, I hope I didn’t disappoint. Anyone looking for a cake disaster should look no further than here.

Have your stats revealed anything you weren’t expecting?

In closing, I’d like to thank all my regular and my new blogger friends for keeping me company and making every day of this solitary passion we share a little less lonely.

And for the rest of you who just clicked on looking for BUTT, shame on you (So maybe I am testing the search engine a bit. I’ll let you know the results later). BUTT hopefully you liked my very sexy shirtless man and sultry woman picture to compensate.

I’M READY! to be finished

It’s official. As you can guess by my Wednesday post, you now know which day I’ve chosen to be my official post day. Right. You guessed it. Tuesday! So for now on I shall post on Tuesday, unless Wednesday looks better.

So anyway, I was watching SpongeBob this morning, and—as it always does—it provoked deep reflection as to who I am. Sometimes I watch and feel slighted that someone made a cartoon out of me and didn’t give me credit. A royalty check would be nice. 

I know what you’re thinking, and knock it off. Just stay with me, I’ll make sense in a minute; I think.

I came by this cartoon about fifteen years ago, not by my kids, but by my boss, She was wild, eccentric, quirky, and the best boss ever—better than Mr. Crabs.

She scheduled meetings in the conference room as a ploy to gather us all for an episode of SpongeBob that she found particularly meaningful for her integrity analogy. She wanted to instill upon us a SpongeBob work ethic per se. A role model for who we were to aspire to be. ‘I’M READY!” Is SB’s motto. And he is. SB is always ready. He goes above and beyond in his every endeavor. He serves others like there is no greater love. He takes his work and anything else he sets his mind to completely seriously. It was his overall attitude she was selling on us. Not the other stuff, though.

SB has a dark side, the one in which I fit the mold. See, he just gets a little too excited about his endeavors. He wants something so badly, he’ll go just a little too above and beyond to get it. Today’s episode: he finally got to be hall monitor at boating school. He wanted it so much that when he finally got it, he gave an acceptance speech so long that by the time he left to monitor the hall, school was over, and the fish trampled him to go home.

I identify with his over-zealousness—like with writing. I want to be published so badly that I’m willing to rewrite (acceptance speech) and rewrite and rewrite. By the time I’m finished, I fear books will be extinct (that’s not a stretch), and agents will be trampling me to find other work–perhaps with my last boss.

I came into this with an “I’M READY!” attitude. I still have it. But I’m ready now to be done.

Does too much enthusiasm get in the way of your goals?

In other news, Laura Best presented me with an award. Thank you, Laura. I don’t feel I deserve it, but I did have a long acceptance speech prepared. For the sake of brevity and my new anti SB sabatoge attempts at my brain, I’ll just say it starts with a thank you to you, my fellow bloggers, to my grandma, parents, brothers, sister … 

There are a couple of rules for this award:
1. Every winner of the Prolific Blogger Award has to pass on this award to at least seven other deserving prolific bloggers. Spread some love!
2. Each Prolific Blogger must link to the blog from which he/she has received the award.
3. Every Prolific Blogger must link back to This Post, which explains the origins and motivation for the award.
4. Every Prolific Blogger must visit this post and add his/her name in the Mr. Linky, so that we all can get to know the other winners.

Since Laura gave the award to some of my blog friends as well, and since those friends did likewise, it will be a challenge to pass the award to someone who doesn’t already have it.

I’ll start with Candice. Candice proudly posts on Thursdays. Unless she doesn’t want to.

I’ll give it to John Travolta as well. And Brenden Fraser, who has been occupying many of my dreams lately. And Johny Depp. And …

The others will follow as I figure out who does and doesn’t already have the award. In fact, Candice might already have it. Oh, well. Can’t be too rich or too thin or have too many duplicate blogger awards. Right?

Suspicious writer seen leaving her house

I love small town police blotters. So much that I mentioned a few of them in my book. Last weekend I visited Ojai: a small town of most excellent police blotter material, and from where most of my location is set in my book. I totally wish I had brought home the newspaper to share some of the hilarious mishaps reported to the police.

The only one I can remember enough to relate is the one that reported unruly 69yr old women causing a public disturbance. I remember this one most because I believed, beyond reasonable doubt, with assuredness, and without hesitation that it was my mother.

I read her the blotter in question (no question, actually). “—Sounds like me,” she blurted before I even finished the article. “I know,” I say, “was it?” “Could be,” she answers.

After a few intense moments of interrogation it was determined the unnamed suspect was indeed not her (I think it’s important to name all blotter suspects to avoid confusion). We had to match the date and time to where she was that day and lo and behold, she had an alibi. Plus, she couldn’t remember any recent citations. All this had me scratching my head: you mean there is another 69 yr old woman in Ojai as feisty as my mother? This can’t be right, can’t be true, but it is. I have questions for this woman (and a possible book deal). But I’m getting off focus here. My focus is blotters and how I miss them living in a high crime city.

Not too long ago, I was driving about a block from my house and found I was completely surrounded by police cars and swat teams. They were arriving from every direction to the Walgreens parking lot. Like every other car on the road, we wanted to both stay and watch and to get out of the line of crossfire. I chose the latter. But leaving left me wondering: what happened? Was it on the news? NO! Was it in the newspaper? NO! And not the next day either, or the day after that. It simply wasn’t big enough to mention.

I woke up today mad I forgot the paper when I left Ojai on Monday. But agent Chip MacGregor must have sensed my despair and provided a link on his site today. From that link I saw a related link that I will share, 11 great Moments in Police Blotter History.

Now you see why I love small town police blotters. This person really needs to order The Ojai Valley News for additional blotter material. There was even a famous chicken that was always getting arrested back in the ’70s. Readers worried when they didn’t read about the defiant chicken. (Which also would be in the blotter: “Fox Street resident called in to report that no chicken has trespassed this week.”)

Caution: Just like cute You Tube kitten videos, you could spend a great deal of time on this person’s 11 most lists. Don’t miss the police blotter-animal edition, though. See what I mean? I can’t stop. Worse—I am admitting this here and I don’t know why—is I signed up for email notifications of all new 11 most lists.

In other news: I found this tidbit in Sunday’s paper. “Legally blind and unable to use his hands, Josh LaRue of New Concord, Ohio, wrote a book by tapping out the words in Morse code using his tongue.”

Okay, so that article made me feel like a doof. My back hurts, I’m sleepy, I’m hungry  No more! I shant ever complain about the minor obstacles that impede upon my writing. I shall cut out the article and tape it above my computer as a reminder of my good writing health. I am so ashamed of myself.

Lastly, I would like to post on a schedule. Stop laughing. Really. As crabbyoldfart would say, “It’s important to be regular.” Now I have to take baby steps, so this will be a once a week venture. But I want you all to tell me what day. I know you don’t care what day so humor me—obviously, I need direction. The day that’s mentioned the most will be my new regular posting day.  Yay!

Last of the lastly: Guide to Literary Agents is having a Dear Lucky Agent contest. January is memoir and narrative non-fiction (and femoir. Anyone know what femoir is?)

Be happy with what you’ve got and other principles of screwing up your dreams

 a view from my terrace?

So last night I had a rare happy dream. Not that I have many nightmares, it’s just that I almost never have a perfect dream. And perfect this was: the place (bustling artist village in the Italian Riviera), the house (ocean front, fully furnished with eclectic, art deco style you only see in decorating magazines. Views from every room in the house), and family (except my husband wasn’t the Type A he is normally. He was a poet who sang phrases of his happiness). It was like I invented my own slice of heaven in the way Jodi Foster did in the movie Contact.

I found two things odd about this dream: 1. I dreamed in precise detail the location. I had never been to a place like this. I have, however, been to the Italian Riviera some twenty years ago, but this place I created wasn’t even close to what I had visited. So my question to odd thing number one is have you ever dreamed in detail a place you never visited?

Odd thing #2. There was nothing to mar my dream. Usually, even the best of dreams have a dark side. Not this one. It was all good. Ever do that?

So what I did was I awoke at 6:25 happy and in a good mood. The dream was still fresh; I went over it in my head and decided I didn’t want to wake up but go back to the happy place, and add my cats which were missing the first go-around. And I did. Only this time the writer in me took over and added conflict and antagonists and basically ruined the dream.   

First off, the four cats I added turned into two bunnies. Second, we meet a group of Italian men who are very eager to be our friends (how can that be bad, you ask?). Well, our Italians turned out to be Mafia and they were the previous tenants of our perfect house. After they gained our trust, they pulled out their knives and started ripping up my perfect red, softique leather sofa.  My husband returned to his Type A and didn’t even shed a tear, said it was too bright anyway. I, however, decided they needed killing and communicated my plans to them. They were polite and told me they would stitch up the sofa, which they did. It wasn’t to my liking. The stitch work left me despondent and unable to stay inside my dream, whereas I woke and was in a bad mood—a mood in which I am familiar and comfortable and felt no need to return to my happy place to fix it.

So my last question is why didn’t I leave well enough alone the first time? Is there something in all of us that just has to ruin perfect? Is it just writers who dream in literary angles?

What type are you?

T’was the fourth day of the new year and all is a flutter

I’ve decided on a new task to edit and de clutter

Type B lurks but I shoo it away

for I need Type A, in a bad way

My old plan required edit through osmosis

Now I must stop smelling the roses

The pace I once took was borderline criminal

For how does one revise just on subliminal?

The question I have on this fine day

Where art thou where art thou my buddy Type A

Oh, how I can’t wait for May when Chip MacGregor holds his next Worst Poetry contest. I didn’t win last year (see my entry here) but I’ve sharpened my skills remarkably, don’t you think?

So my friend and mentor Christian did this wonderful post about writer personality types along with a link to a personality test to see which type you are. He uses Monica and Phoebe from Friends in the writer’s workshop he teaches as perfect examples of Type A and Type B personalities. He declared me a Phoebe well before he knew what my test score would be—it’s that obvious.

The creative Phoebe in me writes the stories, but it when it comes to editing I have some real issues relating to self-discipline. I had jumped to the conclusion that I was experiencing profound wisdom by starring at the tree squirrels outside my window, as if they would somehow subliminally implant an editing hard drive into my brain. Then I would open up my WIP, and three pages in my eyes would glaze over. Squirrels are highly overrated. I would then decide to check my email, read agent blogs, go to other blogs and read and comment, all this I viewed as warming up. By then it was time for bed.

So instead of relying on outside sources to tackle what my right brain repels against, I must unearth what little Monica I do have and put her to use.

I urge you to visit Christian’s blog and take the test and leave him a comment about your results. Then hop on back here and tell me. If you don’t want to reveal to me your results that’s okay; I respect that. I’ll just return to his blog and see what you left there. I’m not that nosey anyway. FYI, I got a 38.

Top Ten Countdown

In a Letterman-like top ten countdown, I’ll present to you what’s available to do during a computer hiatus or blackout per se. During the course of switching to a new provider and things going wrong, I was forced to withdraw into a primitive state for a few days. I can’t complain too much since it happened right before Christmas when I should be taking a break anyway. In fact, had my husband not said something about it, I wouldn’t have noticed. But since he did say something about it, I wanted nothing more than to have my something back. So what was to be an already computer-free day became my wanting the computer. Badly.

If you are out there and you’ve been denied something and now must take your mind off said something I have the list for you.

10. Stare at the Christmas tree.

Yes, you’ve seen it but have you really seen it? I studied my tree to the point of terror, thinking it was somehow haunted. The formation of green and red lights lent an image that only too much rum and egg nog can conjure. I freaked out and graphed next year’s color scheme. I decided on all green lights next year and even how many strands I’ll need.

9. Stare at the cats.

Yes, of course, I know what they look like. But I never really looked at them before (and this made them very, very uncomfortable, btw). They are such striking creatures with such beautiful markings and magnificent eyes—visual poetry. I also realized they are not human, but actually animals. They really don’t think and speak in the captions I create for them every day, nor do they love me as much as I had previously thought.

8. Shave my legs.

Really, I didn’t, but the threat was there

7. Leave my house.

I had to; I was about to shave my legs.

6. Clean my hall closet.

The dust bunnies in there were enough to create a fifth cat that doesn’t love me.

5. Read

I always read. I read every day. In fact, I have about nine newly started books. But what I mean is read and finish a book.

4. Go to the library and check out more books that I’ll have to pay a hefty fine for returning only when they were finished and not when they were due.

3. Fire up the Jacuzzi I hadn’t sat in for two years. (Of course it rained heavily the minute I sat down.)

2. Watch TV

I did. I really did. This coming from someone who loves TV about as much as a vegetarian loving The Sizzler steak platter. And since I did and wish I didn’t, I’m going to share with you why I wish the movie industry was as picky about writing standards as the publishing industry.

Exhibit A. Four Christmas: I watched this on Christmas Eve and boy what a disappointment. There was kinky sex in the first minute and it got worse from there with a scene of stupid uncle telling little boy that his dad is really Santa—this is in the company of my 10yr old daughter. You just can’t trust ratings anymore—or movies under a disguise of a family Christmas movie.

Exhibit B. Surviving Christmas: This was just sooo bad I couldn’t finish it. There are no words to describe just how stupid this show was. Ben Affleck, you’ll never work in this town again.

Exhibit C. Because I Said So: This movie won the prize of belonging to my top five worst movies ever seen AND I saw it with my 10 year old AND if you’ve seen it I know you’re cringing. Word of advice: PG or PG-13 only means you won’t see full frontal nudity these days, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see everything else. EVERTHING, people. I used to like Diane Keaton, but now when I see her I just can’t get past her asking her unmarried adult daughter what an orgasm feels like then looking like a happy idiot as she tells her!!! I’ll never look at Mandy Moore again as she was an even worse actress in her pornographic recant of just how good one feels. This mother and daughter movie was a 12 on a scale of 1-10 on yuck factor. Sorry, movie rant review over.

And the number one thing I did while on my blackout: read my manuscript. I printed this puppy out in October but couldn’t stand the thought of reading it one more time. So I let it sit and sit and sit. The longer it sat, the less I wanted to read it. I felt like I’d been separated from my husband and avoided reuniting out of fear I wouldn’t love him anymore. So with great trepidation and sweaty hands, I dug out the ms and began to read until I realized the love is still there, bigger and better than before. I fell in love again.

6-Minute Ramble

Last month Judy posted 7 Minutes. She wrote 7 minutes worth of stream-of-conscious rambles; a spinoff from the 11-minute ramble she found on someone else’s blog. So today, I present to you my 6-minute ramble. Now this reminds me, of course, of a scene from There’s Something About Mary when Ben Stiller picks up a hitchhiker (serial killer) and the hitchhiker explains his get-rich-quick scheme of making a 7-Minute Abs video, at which point Ben stupidly asks him what happens when someone makes a 6-Minute Abs video. Things got ugly for Ben after that and my point is … I have no point, which is the point. Get it? I don’t.

10:33 am

Today is the last day of school before Christmas break. I went to a PTA party last night. My daughter is in 5^th grade. I’ve been to one PTA meeting. That is one since she began school. That is one since she began. Period. Since kindergarten. But I never miss a PTA party. I saw no one nominating me for Mother-of-the-Year award. Dang it! In MSN news today, a bank robber stopped while being pursued by the police to take a smoke break. Did I ever tell you that a distant relative of mine was on America’s Dumbest Criminals show? I didn’t? Oh, well. So I’m very picky about the socks I wear. I have a whole drawer of unwanted socks because my husband enjoys buying me socks for Christmas (since he is no longer allowed to buy me lingerie. I hate that word, lingerie, too). It might take longer than 6 minutes to read this blog because of the head scratching-like pondering you might have to do (yes, I’m complicated. I know). I hate, hate the song Feliz Navidad. I hate, hate, hate any Christmas song sung by a chipmunk or barked by a dog. I stuck a boot on the back of my cat and it stayed … for a long, long time. Long enough to take a picture. I’ll post pictures when no time limit. Speaking of cats, I like obese cats and three of my four are well on their way. Why not the forth? What am I doing wrong? Does global warming apply to Fresno? I’m so cold, my fingers are blue. My skinny-legged neighbor is mowing his driveway in his shorts so maybe it’s just me. Not a typo; he is mowing his concrete driveway and no, I don’t know why. A raccoon, you ask? Because I like shiny things, which is one of the reasons I love Christmas so much. Mmm, shiny. Oh, yeah. It was because he held up a liquor store with a comb. The gun was in the other pocket. Amen and Merry Christmas everybody (in case I don’t post again and if I do then you’ll get two Christmas greetings).

Seven secrets

Lovely Julie Anne Nelson @ http://literaryjules.blogspot.com  sent me this beautiful bouquet of flowers.  With it is a condition that I reveal seven unknown facts about me. I find that a bit challenging considering my life is an open book … literally. My book is a fictionalized memoir. Here are seven facts you won’t find about me anywhere.

1. I dress like a bag lady but spend sixteen dollars a pound for my favorite Whole Foods brand of organic coffee. (Don’t send me hate mail because you went out and bought it and now must adjust your wardrobe finances to afford your new addiction. I will not be held responsible.)
2. I am an extremely complex and serious individual, which stands to reason why my favorite shows are Spongebob Squarepants and old reruns of Get Smart. I must have balance. If I didn’t dumb down at some point I would be just too amazing, wouldn’t I? (Say it’s true. Tell me that’s the reason I must watch these programs. Humor me.)
3. I can’t fold a fitted sheet to save my life.
4. I must write by a window. My library has quiet rooms, which would be a perfect escape from the distractions of my house. But there are no windows. How do they expect me to stare off into space if there is no space? Ceiling tiles do not count as space. They hold no moon or rain or autumn leaves. Ideally, I would write outside, but I can’t see my screen when I do, so it’s back to the desk by the window for me.
5. I am not a vegetarian but if I’m at a restaurant and it’s on the menu, I will always order a tofu dish. Like a fitted sheet, I can’t make a good tofu dish to save my life. If I could prepare a restaurant equivalent, I’d be a master tofu foodie complete with a vegetarian title and the accompanying bragging rights. But until then, “Where’s the Beef?”
6. With so much clutter in my brain, I must have order (much like my dilemma on fact number two). I have overfocused ADD, which means the high-priority project that can’t wait another minute might get cast aside when I decide to clean the refriderator kickplate. Projects take ten times longer than necessary to finish. I can’t just zip through my house and clean it. There is no “zip” in reference to me. I’ll be cleaning a toilet, but decide to clean the back side facing the wall as well. I’ll clean the light fixtures, the baseboards, the glass in the picture frames. I am a downright nightmare. I hate me. So many times, I wish I could be like my mother and “zip” the house clean in fifteen minutes. It takes me eight days and fifteen minutes to clean my house. Now take a guess how I am about finishing my book. You got it. That’s right. It’s on the proverbial slow boat to China in completion. So for order, I have an organized closet (thanks to a day I set aside for shapooing the carpet–somehow the closet got cleaned instead). Clothes are color coordinated. Pants have their place. The clothes I save for when I lose weight are on their own shelf. It’s all good.
7. I was a raccoon in my past life.

Now I must pass the flower torch to seven other bloggers with secrets to reveal.

1. Linda at out of my mind lindacassidylewis.wordpress.com. She loves flowers. There’s even a flower in the name of her novel The Brevity of Roses. I hereby bestow this bouquet to this truly gifted writer.
2. Carol at http://careann.wordpress.com. For having a warm and friendly blog and for returning to mine to comment even though she knows I’m weird.
3. Cynthia at http://catchingdays.cynthianewberrymartin.com for offering so much writing wisdom and thought-provoking posts on her blog.
4. Judy at http://zebrasounds.net for making me laugh and for being the most entertaining blog ever.
5. Laura Best at http://lauraabest.wordpress.com She deserves a bouquet in honor of her book Bitter, Sweet getting published. Congratulations. You’re an inspiration to writers everywhere.
6. Bob Trusty at http://bobtrusty.com for being so adorkable (I borrowed that word from Judy (#4), who is also adorkable and who invented the word. Judy, meet Bob, the new recipient of the highly coveted title).
7. http://rachelhestondavis.wordpress.com . A YA/fantasy writer who is on the query journey (like a lot of us) and could use a little happiness in all the anxious waiting for replies.

Kasie, I thought of you but Julie gave you the same award. I also thought of sweet Candice but Kasie beat me to it.

Let’s all sing now

T’was two weeks since my last post and all through my house, not a thought on a new post and feeling a louse. The stockings are hung on the chimney with care in hopes of a brilliance that I can at once share. When all of a sudden with my head such a clutter, I entered a contest with my heart all a flutter.

This, folks, is why I avoid poetry. I’m also not the best songwriter, either. If you aren’t aware already, Miss Snarks First Victim is holding a contest for best altered Christmas song. The judge is agent Lauren MacLeod and the winner will get a query critique by one and the same. Now, Ms MacLeod has already seen my query when my first page was one of the five or so she chose as winners of a contest back in July. The prize was she read the partial ms, a synopsis and a query letter. She ultimately passed on it, so I figured she might see my name again and let someone else win since we’ve already been acquainted and all.

Then I saw the other entries and I let that fear subside for I have nothing to worry about. I’m even a little ashamed that I thought I ever stood a chance. These are such awesome entries that I want to redact (or better yet, delete) mine. I’m embarrassed to have my two songs up against such talent. As each new song hits my email inbox I sink lower into the my-name-is-mud slump.

If you are reading this post prior to Wed. Dec. 9^th 8am then you still have a chance to enter. If not, read the entries and pick your favorites. I haven’t read them all yet but there’s one by a Julie that I particularly love. Her entry is Dec. 7^th at 5:01 pm to the tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman. I hope you can find it; it’s not to be missed.

Lest you can’t resist, I’ll save you from having to wade through the 60+ entries to locate my two dreadfuls. So for your entertainment (and amusement) pleasure, here they are.

My first song is completely fictional and was ghostwritten by my ten year-old daughter and revised by my-name-is-mud.

Leavin’ me Lost in Wonderland: to the tune of Walking in the Winter Wonderland

The phone rings
He ain’t listenin’
Agent ignores
but I insist on
my submission tonight
But he took a flight
Leavin’ me lost in wonderland

Gone away is the book nook
Here to stay is the e-book
Read on the cheap
can’t make ends meet
if Kindle replaces book stands

In the morning I’ll call my agent
And he’ll pretend that he is out of town
I’ll leave three more messages
While his silence causes my head to pound

Oh, the pain
of rejection
I can’t make
the connection
He tells enough lies
He wears a disguise
Leavin’ me lost in wonderland

The second post is completely non-fiction, ghostwritten by my ten year-old daughter about my-name-is-mud.

Up on the Laptop by the tune of Up on the Rooftop

Up on the laptop my fingers pause
Out jumps good ole Santa Clause
Down through my imagination he brings lots of joys
All for the fantasy my mind employs

Ho ho ho, who would show
Ho ho ho, who would know

Up on the laptop
Click click click
Down went my sanity
Lickity split

 If you missed the contest, go ahead and sing for me here. You never know what talent scouts are out there looking and listening. This could be your big break.

Ignorance was good while it lasted and other things I’m thankful for.

This time last year, I was an internet virgin. I knew it was out there; it offered nothing for me. My employment years involved a sheltered company computer with only their narrowed focused program. Looking back, it was like living in a country that has only one kind of programming for TV viewers.

I had been writing in Word and corresponding with my critique group, but other than that, I was unaware of the worldwide writing community at my fingertips.

And then I became deflowered—overnight.

Members of my writing group can take credit for this. They spoke amongst themselves of this mysterious place, this mystical magical place of wonderment. They spoke of each other’s blogs—what’s a blog? I thought, but too afraid to ask. I was given blog addresses, whereupon I came to visit and leave my comments (it would be three more months before I started one of my own). I learned from each blog that there were agents who had blogs—agents have blogs? Nathan Bransford was the first of many distractions resourceful agent blogs. Then came the industry blogs, which contain every vital piece of distractions information necessary to find and agent and become a published author.

Now there’s a tiny part of me that wishes I just stopped at the writer’s blogs, because before the onslaught of industry blogs, I had hope.

And now, I know too much.

I benefitted greatly from all the online advice thrown my way, but it also came with a price—self-doubt. Ignorance had been my bliss. I had no doubt mine would be the next bestseller and my pounding out thousands of words every day, my belonging to critique groups (trying out several for size and sometimes belonging to many at once), my completing my first draft in a year and having two short stories accepted by a magazine, was a testament to my ambitious goals.

But I have to admit my ambition waned once I became aware of the difficulties of the publishing industry: how it was hard to break in before the bad economy, has now become close to impossible. How does one carry on after such daily news as that, along with all the other negatives? It affected me. I haven’t had many writing successes since I became “aware.” But yet, I am thankful. The tiny part that wishes I was still in a blissful state is overshadowed by the great improvements in my writing since. Once you’re equipped with the power of knowledge you can’t go back. Once you know the world isn’t flat, you don’t continue the same thinking path you once took. I need to return to that prior blazing trail I had been on without sacrificing my daily addictions of agent blogs. I shall overcome.

So I just want to say I am thankful for my knowledge, for the internet distractions  community of industry professionals willing to take the time to educate and empower. And most writerly related of all, I am thankful for the blog friends I’ve made. Each one of you is walking the same path—some at a different pace—and it comforts me to listen to your stories and to share some of mine.

Happy Thanksgiving

p.s. feel free to share what you are thankful for.