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Posts Tagged ‘Writer’

 

I figure you’ve thought I’ve fallen off the face of the earth by now, that I’ve given up blogging and didn’t tell anyone, that maybe something bad has happened to me considering my November post about my October. But none of the above is the reason for my absence. Silly you for letting your imagination run away with you. No. The real reason is I was abducted by aliens and I have been rejected returned.

Well, how else do you explain an unexplained absence? I wake up every day and say, “Where have I been and what have I been doing?”

There is evidence I’ve been gone. Just today I opened the fridge and noticed stuff. Bad stuff. I popped open lids to hairy, unidentifiable things. The only thing remotely familiar was the sweet potato dish leftover from Christmas. Or was it Thanksgiving? (At least my Christmas stuff is put away. Yes, I’m talking to you my next door neighbors who still have their Halloween décor in their yard. [maybe they were abducted by aliens, too]}.

My paper stacks are piled higher. My house is in disarray, as with my hair, my yard is unkempt, as with my hair, and my bills are unpaid.  See?

What?  I. Am. Not. Always. This. Way.  Not even a little bit. Well, maybe a little bit. Maybe a lot. Ok, damnit, I’ve been slipping. Ok?

And I’m not taking it anymore. Today, I’ve turned a new leaf. No more Missy nice gal. I’m doing something different and it’s called Three Damn Things. But not just any things. These are things things. Things that will change my life and make me a better person. But because I’m still recovering from scary refrigerator *things (*things that are bad and unmentionable and not to be confused with Three Damn Things), I will have to continue this post tomorrow. Let’s just hope aliens don’t abduct me before you learn important life lessons.

Until then …

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My parents find all the good signs. And then they send them to me to exploit on my blog. But I’ll leave this one to my readers. I don’t think I can do it justice.

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

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Christi Craig‘s post on Sunday Discoveries inspired my own post on things I found in my own house. Last week I had a yard sale, and in preparation for it I found some things. Lots of things, really. But I’ll mention three.

1.)    The long lost bleach pen. I have a pair of stained white pants in my closet waiting for the day I find my bleach pen. There are just a few spots and don’t want to bleach to whole thing and ruin the colored part of the pants. Bad news is why bother having wearable white pants after Labor Day? I mean, wasn’t it Kathleen Turner who played the role of a woman so upset by another woman wearing white after Labor Day that she killed her? Best not to chance it.  Worse is by the time Memorial Day rolls around, I will have lost the bleach pen again. Maybe then I’ll just suck it up and buy another one. Just like I do Scotch tape. I think I’m in possession of about 4000 rolls of tape due to my “sucking it up”.

2.)    My Autumn garden flag. Unlike the bleach pen, this find is quite timely. I lost this flag when I moved to my house about eight years ago. I’ve been pouting about it since and not sucking it up and buying a new one and just doing without. Now I’m very happy.

3.)    I found an old calendar. Sometimes I’ll buy a calendar of art or photographs that is too beautiful to throw out. Some I’ve cut my favorite months, framed and hung on the wall. The one I found is photographs of Provence, France. I had big plans for it—no wall space, but big plans, anyway—and shoved it away in a closet for the big plan day—otherwise known as the day of big plans, of which I have many.

Tree in lavender field. Provence, France. photo credit Brian Lawrence

Now if you’ve ever run across an old calendar it’s just as nostalgic as the scent of something from your past, a song from your childhood, or an old letter from your grandma. But this calendar isn’t that old. 2004. Seven years ago. Seven years ago didn’t seem like that long until I started flipping through the months.

February I had “off” written. Wow it seems so long ago that I used to work for a living. I feel like I’ve been writing my whole life. I almost forgot about that other life.

Flowerpot in window photo credit: Bruno Morandi

That same February I went to Hawaii. Ahh, pleasant memories. The following month we went to Disneyland and stayed at the Disneyland Hotel, and by April, the memories of income and what I did to spend it came rushing back. The happiness I felt moments before turned to envy—of my own dang self—and I wanted my old financial security back. I wanted trips again, to Provence, in particularly.

Oh, but look, at the end of April was preschool open house. Preschool? Now my envy turned to tears as that little preschooler just started middle school.

I took another vacation in June, and in July, I celebrated my 7th wedding anniversary. Also in July I had laser eye surgery—the first of three. Ahh, the things money can buy—the gift of sight.

In August I had another vacation, this time to Oregon. (I got three weeks a year but accumulated some years.) August my little one went to kindergarten and my oldest to 8th grade.

The excitement continued, but when I finished poring over the entire year, I remembered something else about my past life. The year 2004 was two years before my back surgery. I’ll call that B.S. In B.S. I wasn’t a broken old lady. I didn’t have to make accommodations like I do now after surgery (A.S). I would not plan a trip to Disneyland now as I can’t stand for longer than a half hour. I can’t ride rides. A.S. I can’t do many, many things. And tragically, I can’t medicate due to reactions to almost every kind of medicine there is.

I flipped back through the months and lived those days over again and again, thinking how unpredictable life is, how I never in a million years could have predicted that I would take on a new persona, a new career path, a life of plotting and planning, not just on how to have the least pain-free day, but in my writing, which in 2004 was the furthest thing from my mind.

Naturally I would love to live with no pain or physical limitations, but I can’t complain too much. These days I’m doing something I feel I was born to do. Plus life is slower not working outside the home. The days go by faster but life is slower without competing in the “rat race” and worrying about my performance. I’m there for my kids. I can spot bleach my pants—or not—and I can enjoy the fruits of my labor, even if all I did that day was hang my Autumn flag.

Have you ever found something you thought you lost?

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In tough financial times, we all need to shop strategically, scan the sale ads, and keep an eagle eye out for super deals. My mom has such an eagle eye, because here, at this place they got gas in Oklahoma, you can get a “family” pack of Bud for cheap. Now parents don’t have to hog all the booze themselves, not with the family pack deal. Heck, maybe next week they can get a family case of Marlboros.

Photo: courtesy of my mom

P.S. When I showed this pic to my husband, all that really caught his eye was the cheap price of gas. Men.

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From the mouth of Ron White: “You can’t fix ugly.” No truer words were ever said.

Every day I wake up to a new invented hairstyle. Never a dull moment surrounding my head—inside as well, but that’s self-evident if you’ve been hanging around my blog for longer than, say, one post.

Sometimes I can get so discouraged with my hair that I take comfort in the sight of uglier people. It’s been a while since I’ve sunk so low as to visit uglypeople.com. I had no idea it turned into a porn sight. What a letdown. So I did what any self-disrespecting ugly-haired seeker of the unsightly would do. I sought consolation in viewing ugly animals.

I’m not as much of an animal lover as I previously thought. Because the winner of world’s ugliest dog contest is so ugly that if I came across it unexpectedly, I would probably kill it in a knee-jerk reaction.

2011 winner

I think it might be uglier than the three-time winner of the world’s ugliest dog—who, had it not died in 2005, would likely be a nine-time winner. I know this is all very mean for me to admit publicly, and I might regret it later, but for right now, I just had to get my feelings off my chest.

(Note: two hours have passed and I still do not regret ugly-dog bashing.)

I’ve got to ask: Could you love something that ugly? And does comparing your looks to that of an ugly dog count as esteem building?

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I once read in a magazine a tip from an author on successful writing. All I remember of her tips is this: Dress for success. Dress like you care. 

I serious

She went on to say she had been writing in her sweats and jammies, not even brushing her hair, looking like something the cat dragged in (so?). Then a friend suggested she clean herself up and take her job seriously and it would reflect in her writing. She did and her writing improved along with her self-esteem.

Okay, I said to me, I’ll put it to the test. I took a shower, blow-dried my hair—styled it, even—painted my nails, wore slacks and a blouse—bra included—and a pair of low-heeled shoes.

I’ll be the first to attest that this “friend’s” advice is a load of BS. Not only did all that cut into my writing time, but I was extremely uncomfortable, hyper-focusing on my bra and shoes and not on writing. The wispy feather-strands of my hair were tickling my face, my arms were restricted in the long sleeves of my blouse, my slacks were digging into my gut, and the smell of nail lacquer was making me sick.

This friend was no friend, and this author was crazy. I mean, who does that???? (If you do, confess right here. I won’t bite. To each his/her own, right? Whatever works for you is cool with me. Nothing wrong with that. *OTHER THAN IT’S WRONG!! *the author of this post is kidding and is not passing judgment on your writing attire.)

So head on over to wordsxo, where you’ll find me, trendsetter that I am, exposed in my professional writing garb.  There, you’ll be treated to what not to wear when writing. Since she’ll be asking you what’s the most bizarre outfit you’ve ever written in, I’ll conclude by asking something more personal: What are you wearing right now? (sounds kinky)

Also, you’ll notice that Milli (check out her blog on pjs) refers to my old Twitter name of IQOkie. It is now under my regular name of Tricia_Sutton. She is aware of it but in denial. She loves the old name and followed me because of it. I side with Milli, but I took advice from a social media expert (much like the “friend” mentioned above) and changed it to my name. Tell me, should I change it back or keep my name?

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Someone (Kasie) from my writing group compares her novel to the movie Sliding Doors. I’d never seen this movie until yesterday and only caught the last hour. I loved the movie and can’t wait to watch it someday in its entirety. But here is my favorite part: A guy meets his friend in a pub and declares excitedly, “I finished it!” His friend says, “Your book?” and the guy says, “No. I’m a novelist, it’ll never be finished.” (I’m paraphrasing here since I didn’t know at the time I’d be quoting this wise and true statement). Now I have the perfect comeback for such presumptions and can’t wait for someone to assume I’ve finished my book so I can say that.  

So this person (Kasie) from my group of four members has not only finished her book and can readily admit it, but just sold her book to a publisher. Or rather her agent did. In this day of dismal statistics for debut writers, this news is inspiring. It gives me hope that there are still agents willing to take on newbies and still publishing houses willing to publish them. Check out Kasie\’s blog where she will share the query that landed her the agent who signed her. She is not only an awesome query writer, she is also an awesome writer, writer buddy, critiquer, and all things writing and not writing.

Yay for Kasie.

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