Read In Bed!

Not sure what the things on their heads are but clearly, someone’s opening up a can of Whupass.

M

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I live in a house with people I swear were raised by apes. This doesn’t point a pleasant finger at myself, obviously, since I’m the one raising two of them. And the third really ought to know better anyway.

Okay, in case you didn’t know it, let me point out to you: If you clog the toilet it will NOT just “settle” or “go away” if you don’t flush it or otherwise try to plunge it. I’m just sayin’. It’s still going to be there for the next person to deal with. Oh. Yeah. Who’s the next person to deal with it? Me. NOT HAPPY.

Okay, maybe it’s me because I grew up in the “turn of lights, save energy” days, but…hello. Turn off the lights. It’s the day time, you don’t need to turn ON a light in the first place, we have plenty of light. But if you MUST turn on a light, turn it off. Okay? Seems easy enough, doesn’t it? Turn off the lights. Yet I say “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS” like, oh, a hundred and fifty times a day.

Okay, so sure, I’m guessing it’s me, but cupboard doors shouldn’t be left hanging open. Doors in general shouldn’t be left hanging open if they need to be closed. Oh, and did I mention that if you turn on a fricking light you should turn it off? Oh, and flush the toilet too, please, and turn off the light AND close the bathroom door. Thanks.

All I can say is, I must be HORRIBLY DEMANDING and TERRIBLE to live with because it feels like all I do all day is say “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS” “PICK UP YOUR SHIZZ” “CLOSE THE DOOR” “PUSH THE CHAIRS IN” “PUT YOUR DIRTY CLOTHES IN THE LAUNDRY” “PICK UP YOUR SOCKS” “PUT YOUR SHOES AWAY” and various variations on those themes.

Because, and this is a totally NOT SUBTLE reminder here…pick up your shizz. This includes your socks that you toss off just any old where and leave for me to find. This includes, (yes, shocking I know) UNDERWEAR and SOCKS and SHOES and SPORTS EQUIPMENT.

I know I’m a mortal pain in the ass to live with but for the love of all that’s holy, seriously.

FLUSH THE TOILET.
PICK UP YOUR SHIZZ.
USE SOAP!!!!!!!!!

I’m going to get a recording and just playing it over and over under their pillows like a subliminal thing.

M

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So…I’m contemplating buying an Alphasmart Neo. This is because they don’t seem to sell the Alphasmart 3000 any longer, which is what I have. I love my Alfie. I’ve written so many books, novellas and short stories on it, I’ve lost count. It’s the perfect tool — easy to operate, heavy duty, lightweight, rechargeable, a nice size. I’ve taken it to the playground, the coffee shop, the lake, on a plane, on a train, in the car, to the beach. It goes where I go and it simply…works.

So why replace it? Well, it’s getting old and while I have replaced the keyboard once already (it was still under warranty and whaddayaknow, they replaced it for me! NIIICE) it is showing signs of wear and tear. It still works. It’s a workhorse. There’s nothing wrong with it at all. Sure, the letters on some of the keys are wearing off and there are scratches, but it works.

So why replace it?

Well, because I could give this one to my kid to use for HER stories and have a bright shiny new one for myself. Because the new one has some nice new features I *might* (or might not) like. Because I can afford to and because it could be a tax deduction? (ok, lame!) Just…because?

But you know what the bottom line is? I love my Alfie and will write a hundred more books on it or a new unit like it. It’s truly the perfect writer’s tool.

But it’s only a tool.

And a tool is worthless if you don’t use it.

I will admit to being of the “ooh, shiny!” mindset on occasion. Graphic tablets, laser pens that let you “write” and transcribe right into your computer, voice recognition, new operating systems, laptops…hell, if they could invent a chip that would take the words right out of my brain and download them directly into a document, I would TOTES be looking that up on the ‘net and pricing it out.

But you know what? While those tools might make all the difference in the world to a writer, and they might genuinely help you get the words on the page — they’re still only tools. And tools are worthless if you don’t use them. You can own every piece of shiny equipment in the world, you can spend hours setting them up, messing with discs, farting around on email, getting your office lined up the way you want it…and in the end, none of that is going to write your book for you.

The only person who can write your book is YOU. Whether you do it by hand or on an Alphasmart or on a laptop or desktop or by dictation, you’re still the one who has to do the work. You’re still responsible for turning off the internet or the Sims or the Wii and getting to business.

Oh, and blogging. Yeah. Ahem. Blogging doesn’t count as writing unless you’re getting paid for it. (And before you bloggers jump all over me, what I’m talking about is being a paid writer, it’s your job, you have a contract and instead of writing your novel you’re blogging. In that case, the blogging doesn’t count as writing. It’s not what you’re being paid for.)

So.

I don’t think I’ll be ordering the Neo right now. Because I don’t *need* it unless my current unit dies. And it won’t help me write better or faster. (Much like the lovely purple vaccuum that man I live with bought for me. Yeah, nice bells and whistles. Someone still has to run it.)

Anon, my doves, anon. It’s Saturday and I’m off to a picnic later, but now I’m going to eat and NOT buy a new toy. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually write.

M

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I found this quote somewhere, a few years ago, and have had it pinned to my bulletin board ever since. I don’t recall where I found it or who said it, but here it is:

“Being big while allowing another to act small only leads to being surrounded by small people. How different this world will be when good people learn to stand up for themselves.”

I don’t claim to be perfect. I’m flawed. I know it. I don’t claim to always act on the behalf of others. I’m not utterly selfless. I’m not always pleasant tempered or kind hearted or generous. I have my selfish moments like everyone.

But I don’t live my life expecting the world to stop its course and serve me. (Houseboys, yes. The world at large? No.) I don’t make every act or effort about me, what I want, what I expect or what I deserve. By and large I despise confrontation, so I will usually bite my tongue rather than start one.

But quite some time ago I decided that served nobody — to bite my tongue when someone is behaving badly only allows them to continue behaving badly. Nothing I say or do will likely change the way those sorts of people act, but I don’t have to bend over and let them do it to me. I can stand up for myself. And I will, and I will especially stand up for my children and that man I live with.

I don’t believe *my* opinion is the only one, or is the only right one, or that anything I think is the only way the world should work. I’m mostly a live and let live sort of person. But I also don’t believe that allowing someone behave like a moron to me, to my family, to my friends, or even to strangers, is deserving of respect or looking past that behavior.

If you treat me right, I’ll treat you right. If you mess with me, I’ll probably ignore you or put you out of my life if I can. If I can’t do that, I will tell you how I feel and hope you’ll either change how you interact with me or decide to take yourself out of my life. But I won’t just step aside and let you keep hurting me or the people I love.

I’m not totally unaware that everyone has a different view on their own lives. And I can completely understand that I’m not perfect or fabulous and that I make mistakes. And I also can see how my philosophy could lead someone to think that *I’m* being disrespectful or whatever. I can see that because I’m not completely self-absorbed and narcissistic and believing the world revolves around me.

So, there. That’s my addendum to yesterday’s rant.

I’m not perfect; I don’t expect everyone to be perfect, but if you’re gonna be jerk, I’m going to call you on it.

M

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I just have to say something: If history is repeating itself around you with a different set of people but the same outcome: maybe it’s not THEM. Maybe it’s YOU.

If you demand the world to change to accommodate you without ever bending to change for anyone else in it, maybe you shouldn’t be so fecking surprised when you don’t get what you want.

If you try to manipulate people by being sneaky and think that makes you smart, but you’re really too blind or dumb to notice that, hello, the people you’re trying to manipulate have you all figured out, maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised when nobody pays attention to what you’re trying to get out of them and we all just make sure NEVER to do what you want because you didn’t have the balls to just ask for it.

If you do have the balls to ask for what you want but you insist on DEMANDING it instead of just requesting it, you’re probably going to be a very sad, disappointed l’il punkin when you’re ignored.

If you stomp your feet and wave your arms and shout about honor and respect…it might be a good idea if you just shut the fuck up and DO instead of expect to be handed whatever you want on a red velvet pillow — it ain’t gonna happen, especially not when you think your age or position means you’re Emperor of anything but your fat head.

I am beyond tired of people who think that because they WANT they deserve to GET, people who don’t notice the earth revolves around the sun, not them, and people who make the same aggravating, sad mistakes over and over again (esp. with people they allegedly “love”) yet never seem to get a clue that love doesn’t mean owning someone. People who don’t appreciate what they have right there before them but insist on sticking their fingers in everyone else’s pie — people who never give without expecting to get, people who insist they’re only acting out of love but are really only concerned with their own feelings, desires and wishes.

There’s a reason why the saying goes “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” because it’s true. If you’re a miserable, greedy, manipulative, dissatisfied, self-centered person, you really shouldn’t be surprised if nobody wants to hang around with you or give you what you want.

This could apply to a lot of people, but anyone who really needs to understand it either doesn’t read this blog or will never seem themselves as I’ve described them. I just need to say it.

M

PS– It does also apply to politicians and those in authority.

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Stranger will be out in January 2009 from Spice.

Trivia:

STRANGER was originally called Catch and Release. It was also originally the proposed third book of my first contract with Spice. However, after finishing BROKEN the idea for a book I first called Moments of Disarray, then called Perfect, and eventually called TEMPTED so took over my brain I proposed that, instead. I wrote Catch and Release after that and it became STRANGER.

It features Sam Stewart, who is Dan’s younger brother. It also features JACK from Dirty. Yay, Jack! Jack, who was in fact based upon a real person whose real name I do not know but who sure knew how to dance.

Sam sounds a lot like a combination of Joshua Radin and Thom Lyons.

Excerpt:

I was looking for a stranger.

The Fishtank wasn’t my usual hangout, though I’d been inside it once or twice. Recently redecorated, it sought to compete with a bunch of brand-new bars and restaurants that had opened in downtown Harrisburg, but though the tropical theme and aquariums were pretty and the drinks cheap enough, The Fishtank was too far away from restaurant row to really compete. What it did have that the other, newer bars didn’t, was the attached hotel. The Fishtank, “where you hook ’em” was sort of a joke with the young and single crowd of central Pennsylvania. Or at least with me, and I was young. And blessedly, purposefully, single.

Scanning the crowd, I wove my way through the closely set tables toward the bar. The Fishtank was filled, literally, with people I didn’t know. One would be the perfect stranger, emphasis on perfect.

So far, I hadn’t seen him, but there was still time. I took a seat at the bar. My black skirt rode up a little and my stockings, held up by garter-belt of wispy lace, slipped on the leather stool. The sensation whispered up my thighs, bare above the tops of my stockings. My panties, of even wispier lace, rubbed me as I shifted.

“Tröegs Pale Ale,” I told the bartender, who passed me a bottle with a nod.

Compared to many of the women in The Fishtank, I was dressed conservatively. My black skirt was cut fashionably just above the knee, my blouse silky and form-fitting, but in the sea of low-riding jeans and navel-baring t-shirts, spaghetti straps and hooker heels, I stood out. Just the way I wanted.

I sipped my beer and looked around. Who would it be? Who would take me upstairs tonight? How long would I have to wait?

Apparently, not long. The seat next to mine had been empty when I sat, but now a man took it. Unfortunately, it was the wrong man. A stranger, yes, but not the one I was waiting for. The guy had blond hair and a gap between his two front teeth. Cute, but definitely not what I wanted. Also unfortunately, he didn’t seem to take a hint.

“No, thanks,” I said when he offered to buy me a drink. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“You’re not waiting for your boyfriend.” He said this unshakeable confidence. “You’re just saying that. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I have one already.” I gave him points for persistence, but I wasn’t here to go home with a frat boy who thought “not” jokes were the height of humor.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone.” Pause. “NOT!”

He laughed, slapping a thigh. “C’mon. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I –”

“Are you hitting on my date?”

Frat Boy and I turned, and both our jaws dropped. I’m pretty sure we each had different reasons. His was probably surprise at being wrong. Mine was in delight.

The man standing next to me had the dark hair and blue eyes I’d been looking for. The earring. The jeans, deliciously worn in all the right places and the white t-shirt with a denim jacket over it. I was seated on a high bar stool and he still towered over me. I guessed him to be at least four inches over six feet, if not more.

Very, very nice.

My stranger flicked his hand like he was brushing away Frat Boy. “G’wan, now. Go.”

Frat Boy, to give him credit, didn’t try to make excuses. He just grinned and got off the stool. “Sorry, man. You can’t blame me for trying, can you?”

My stranger turned to look at me, and his blue-eyed gaze roamed over my every inch before he answered. “No.” H sounded considering. “I don’t guess I can.”

Frat Boy vacated the seat, and my stranger took it. He held out the hand not gripping the glass of dark beer. “Hi. I’m Sam. Don’t say Sam I am, or I’ll toss you back to that doofus.”

Sam. The name suited him. Before he gave it I might’ve imagined him as anyone, but once he did I could imagine him as nobody else.

“Grace.” I shook his proffered hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“What are you drinking, Grace?”

I lifted my bottle. “Tröegs Pale Ale.”

“How is that?”

I sipped. “Pale.”

Sam held up his glass. “I’ve got Guinness. It’s not pale. Let me buy you one.”

“I haven’t finished the one I have,” I said, but with the smile I hadn’t given Frat Boy.

Sam leaned in. “C’mon, Grace. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“Uh huh. Do I look like I want hair on my chest?”

Sam blatantly eyed the front of my blouse. “Without seeing the chest in question, I’m afraid I can’t say.”

I laughed. “Riiiight. Try again.”

Sam gestured to the bartender and asked for two more bottles of the Pale Ale. “For when you’re done with that one.”

I didn’t take the second bottle. “I can’t, really. I’m on call.”

“Are you a doctor?” Sam tipped back the last of his beer from his glass and pulled a bottle toward him.

“No.”

He paused, waiting for me to say more, but I didn’t. He drank, swallowed. He gave the sort of manly grunt and lip-smack guys make when they drink beer from bottles and are trying to impress women. I watched him without speaking and sipped from my own bottle, wondering how he meant to do this. I really hoped he’d make it convincing enough for me to go upstairs with him.

“So. You’re not here to drink, then?” Sam eyed me, then turned on his stool so our knees touched.

I smiled at the touch of challenge in his tone. “Not really. No.”

“So…” he paused, as if thinking. He was very good. “So what you’re saying is, let’s say a guy, oh, bought you a drink.”

“Okay.”

“Before he knew you weren’t here to drink.”

I smiled again, holding back a laugh. “Sure. Let’s say that.”

Sam swiveled on his stool to fix me with an intense gaze. “Would he already have fucked up too bad, or would you give him a chance to make it up to you?”

I pushed the bottle he’d bought me toward him. “I guess that would depend.”

Sam’s slow grin was a heat-seeking missile sent straight between my thighs. “On what?”

“On if he was cute or not.”

Slowly he turned to show off his profile, then to the other side until he finally looked at me head-on. “How’s this?”

I looked him over. His hair, the color of expensive black licorice and spiked on the crown, feathered a bit over his ears and against the back of his neck. His jeans had rubbed to white in interesting places. He wore black, scuffed boots I hadn’t noticed before. I looked back up to his face and the quirking mouth, the nose saved from being too sharp only by the way the rest of his features came together. He had brows like dark wings, arched high over the center of his eyes and tapering to nothing at the outside corners.

“Yes.” I leaned closer. “You’re cute enough.”

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