Submitted for Your (Dis) Approval

So after writing that last entry, I figure why not go for it.  So, I'm putting it out there, and looking for some feedback, I suppose.   This is, what I hope will be the beginning of my novel.  I'd like the working title to be "Real Werewolves Have Chest Hair" but I'm wondering if that will fly with an agent.  Anyway, for better or for worse, here it is.     Please, if you are reading and would be so kind, let me know what you think.

If you're not sure what to say, here are some questions to answer.

1.  Did it hold your interest?

2. Does the main character seem/likable ?

3. Does reading this make you want to know what happens next?

Thanks in advance!

Here it is-have at it. :P

Good Morning, Dad, Good Morning, Warren”. In some distant, quiet, part of my brain I hear them both answer, “Good morning!” It kills me hearing them so cheery but if they are where I believe they are, I suppose that makes sense.

You need to understand one thing about me right off the bat. (Cue the eerie music). I talk to dead people. No, I don't see them, like that creepy little kid in “The Sixth Sense “ or that stick woman with the surgically enhanced boobs in “The Ghost Whisperer” I talk to them. Some of the time they talk back, most of the time, they just listen. Sometimes, when they feel like it, they pay me a visit and strike up a conversation.

I talk to my dad, who's been gone for seven years now. I still miss him like he passed yesterday. He and I were close, and he, well, he got me, like only a few of my friends now, do.

Warren is Warren Zevon, the brilliant musician who was taken by cancer much too early. I used to listen to him in high school and college, and recently started listening to him again, discovering that he wrote some profound, and almost beautifully painful songs. I'm reading his biography right now, and the more I learn about him the more I'm sure that he and I would have been friends (and possibly more) if we'd run into each other . Maybe I'll get to talk to him in the Next Life, that is, if I survive this one.

Now that you know that, I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Sydney Wallace, 42, aspiring journalist, writer, and former publicist for Mr. Peter Sampson, the famous Broadway actor. If you haven't been living under a rock, you'll recognize the name immediately, if not, trust, me you're better off. I say 'former publicist ' because I just left my job a week ago and am now frantically searching for something new, so that I can continue to pay my rent and eat. Fortunately I saved some of my paycheck so I can make it for two months, maybe three if I eat Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It also gives me time to work on the novel I've been trying to write for two years now. At least that's what I tell myself those days I don't job hurt, but stare at the blank page on my laptop and curse that blinking cursor that whines “you don't give me enough to do”.

No, a writer's life is not an easy one, but, seeing as I've been writing stories and little poems since I was seven years old, and making them up for as long as I can remember it's kind of hard to stop now. Even though my mother nags, “find a real job, one with stability and a nice 401K plan that will see you through your golden years.” What she doesn't say is that if I had a job like that I'd be more likely to find an acceptable man with money so I wouldn't have to work, and who would support me in my golden years. Ugh. That's her idea of a wonderful life, not mine.

It's not that I wouldn't like to have someone to share my life with, a companion, a friend, a guaranteed date for big events and holidays, but I seem to have a tendency to fall for the unavailable whether they are fledgling sociopaths, (I almost married that one), already married, or dead. (I've told you about the dead one already.). I'm pretty sure that marriage is out of the picture for now, and I've been trying to muffle the ticking of my biological clock with about twelve pillows. Some times that works, other days, not so much. I've basically accepted.that I will be alone, and the more I stay that way,the more I realize that there aren't many men who could put up with most of my more, well let's just call them eccentricities.

So, that's where I am right now. It's not perfect, but it's a damned sight better than where I was a week ago.

Note to Gilbert and Sullivan...

A writer's lot is no more happy than a policeman's is, or was in those days.  In fact, in many ways, I often think a writer has a harder time of it, especially in these times of e-books and self publishing.   When I first started writing, computers were massive towers that hummed in cold basements of office buildings, televisions only had   channels 2-13, vampires were to be feared, not loved, along with werewolves, dragons, and all other paranormal creatures of the night, and the only wizards that merited the world's attention either lived in Middle Earth or Oz.
  I have always been in love with books and reading, and I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book in my hand.  My parents always read to me before bed, and of course my grandparents never had to ask me what I wanted for a birthday/Christmas present, my answer was always the same-A book.   I even think 'read' was one of my first words, and I taught myself how to do it myself when I was three years old.
   Books have saved my life more times than I can count.   They are my sanctuary and my solace, a soft place to fall and a place to go without leaving my house---a blessing for a borderline agoraphobic with minimal social skills, as I am sometimes.   I joke that they are my friends and my comfort, things that only a true lover of words will ever understand.
  So I suppose it's no surprise, that at the age of seven, I started writing.  Poems, stories, and dare I say, even some elementary fan-fiction.   I've been writing ever since.   I feel as much peace when I'm writing as I do when I'm in church, or out walking somewhere beautiful.  
   Lately though, that peace and well being have ebbed a bit, alright, to be honest, a great deal, and this change seems to be concurrent to my decision to stop feeling guilty, and be a real writer.   Which means, basically, since the reality of my life right now consists of waiting for the beginning of the month so I can pay the co-pay on my new depression meds, and then seeing if they will work so that I can be in position of actually feeling like I can look for a 'real job', the only thing I'm doing that has any semblance of work to it, is reading articles about writing, looking for magazines, and contests where I can submit my work, and then waiting to hear back, researching publishing houses, agents and how to write a good query letter, and what was that last thing?
  Oh yeah, ACTUAL writing.  So, I suppose, for lack of a better word, doing all that is my job right now.
    Some days, doing this seems to have the same angst and frustration level as a couple who are trying to get pregnant would have, and I PRAY I don't offend anyone by saying that.   The waiting, the failures, the rejections, seem to be all, somewhat the same.  I'm pretty sure however, those couples eat better, sleep better, and at times enjoy their creative process more than I do.
  Which makes me worry.  Seeing how upset I get at each contest loss, each rejection letter, I wonder if I'm cut out to be a writer.  I can understand, the longer I stick with it, why so many writers drank, self-medicated, had endless bouts of melancholy.   Then again, even before I was writing seriously, F. Scott's "Dark Night of the Soul " and I were very well acquainted.    In fact, it is during some of these black times that I am the most creative, and that I turn out the best work.
  Rejections and being ignored do sting, but after pursuing writing, and ONLY writing(meaning not even thinking of doing something else) for six months, I am beginning to understand the people who say 'each no makes you try harder for a yes"
I have my days where I throw fits on twitter, where I rail at my friends over some other writer's success that I cannot understand, but when the shouting's done and the dust settles--(and I'm usually in tears), I take a deep breath and start over.
  I love this work.   I adore my muses.   That's not going to change.  Someday, maybe,  someone will read my work and  believe as I do-I was MEANT to be a writer.
Now, you'll excuse me ---crying again.  :P

25 1/2 Shades of Mauve

Okay.  I swore to myself, I even swore on my father's grave, that I wouldn't justify the existence of this book by blogging about it.   After today, however, when someone I admire(d)? greatly mentioned it as something that might make worthwhile reading, I just couldn't stop myself.
  Unless you've been hiding under a rock there is a trilogy of books, which are being labelled as 'Erotic Novels" by the author E.L. James. (a pen name, perhaps)?  The first one is called "50 Shades of Grey".  I'll confess I haven't read  the book itself, but I've read PLENTY of excerpts, as I've struggled to figure out what the appeal of such a story could be.
For those of you who still don't know what I'm on about, I direct you to this wonderful blog post.
http://www.readreactreview.com/2012/01/30/50-things-about-50-shades-of-grey/#.T430EqtO_dU

  Are you finished reading?   Have you stopped laughing?  Here's my point.  A long time ago, in this same galaxy, there was-ok, there still is-, a genre of writing called 'erotica'  D.H. Lawrence's "Lady Chatterly's Lover" fits into it.  So does Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"   Not to mention the rather enigmatic author Anais Nin, who wrote several novellas which fit into the genre.  Let me find an excerpt of her work
WARNING:  this is not work safe, AND, if you have any kids, tweens, teens etc, tell them to stop reading over your shoulder.
"He not on­ly con­tin­ued to kiss her as if he were drink­ing her whole mouth, tongue, breath, in­to his big dark mouth, but his hands mauled her, pressed deeply in­to her flesh, leav­ing marks and pain ev­ery­where. She was moist and trem­bling, open­ing her legs and try­ing to climb over him. She tried to open his pants.

'There is time,' he said. 'There is plen­ty of time. We are go­ing to stay in this room for days. There is a lot of time for both of us.'

Then he turned away and got un­dressed. He had a gold­en-brown body, a pe­nis as smooth as the rest of his body, big, firm as a pol­ished wood ba­ton. She fell on him and took it in­to her mouth. His fin­gers went ev­ery­where, in­to her anus, in­to her sex; his tongue, in­to her mouth, in­to her ears. He bit at her nip­ples, he kissed and bit her bel­ly. She was try­ing to sat­is­fy her hunger by rub­bing against his leg, but he would not let her. He bent her as if she were made of rub­ber, twist­ed her in­to ev­ery po­si­tion. With his two strong hands he took what­ev­er part of her he was hun­gry for and brought it up to his mouth like a morsel of food, not car­ing how the rest of her body fell in­to space. Just so, he took her ass be­tween his two hands, held it to his mouth, and bit and kissed her. She begged, 'Take me, An­to­nio, take me, I can't wait!' He would not take her.

By this time the hunger in her womb was like a rag­ing fire. She thought that it would drive her in­sane. What­ev­er she tried to do to bring her­self to an or­gasm, he de­feat­ed. If she even kissed him too long he would break away. As she moved, the big belt made a clink­ing sound, like the chain of a slave. She was now in­deed the slave of this enor­mous brown man. He ruled like a king. Her plea­sure was sub­or­di­nat­ed to his. She re­al­ized she could do noth­ing against his force and will. He de­mand­ed sub­mis­sion. Her de­sire died in her from sheer ex­haus­tion. All the taut­ness left her body. She be­came as soft as cot­ton. In­to this he delved with greater ex­ul­tan­cy. His slave, his pos­ses­sion, a bro­ken body, pant­ing, mal­leable, grow­ing soft­er un­der his fin­gers. His hands searched ev­ery nook of her body, leav­ing noth­ing un­touched, knead­ing it, knead­ing it to suit his fan­cy, bend­ing it to suit his mouth, his tongue, press­ing it against his big shin­ing white teeth, mark­ing her as his'

Oh, fan yourself, take a cold shower, whatever. ;)

    Holy cats, that gal could write.  Most romance writers should take notes.  Yes, it's a graphic scene, but there's emotion, and feeling behind it.   There is no profanity, no barnyard animals(ie roosters and kitty cats--do I really have to explain further?)   That said, it's not what I would read on a regular basis, but the writing is excellent, the emotion is there.  It's not just sex, for sex's sake.

   And I suppose that's my point. "50 Shades" with its sadomasochism, its demeaning portrayal of a young, naive woman getting an 'education' at the hands of an older, urbane, man who controls her throughout the first book, is well, harmful to anyone who reads it.     The sex scenes are even more graphic than what I quoted above, and they are so clinically written it's almost like an instruction manual.   There does not seem to be much love between Christian Grey and Anna, and the whole idea of her 'redeeming and saving' a 'brooding and emotionally damaged man' as so many of the trilogy's fans protest the story is truly about , well that's just not realistic.  Besides, Charlotte Bronte did it much better in "Jane Eyre", and I don't think Jane and Edward ever did the mattress mambo.  In print, anyway. :P

  It's disturbing to hear that young girls are reading this and blogging, texting and IMing that "Christian Grey is so hawt'!  It's even more disturbing to know that wives are reading it in bed while their husbands ask for attention(and I'm not necessarily talking about SEXUAL attention"!  It is supremely upsetting to me, a single woman that both men and women are reading this and thinking Christian and Anna's story is the model for a good relationship. This book is a fantasy, and sometimes, fantasies can be dangerous.

  I suppose that's all I have to say.   Just my .02 for what it's worth.  A healthy relationship, as anyone who has worked to have one knows, is work.  And when it works, it's about so much, MUCH more, than sex.  

.PS-I still do admire the person whose comment inspired me to write this.   And, if he's reading this post,  I hope he never, EVER reads that Infernal Book.  You are so much better than that, dear Walter. Trust me. ;)

A Quiet, 'Normal ' Life

Alton Brown ‏ @altonbrown

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“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live".-Charles Bukowski  Yeah, I snagged a tweet again.  Deal with it, it fits the topic.

  Anyway, is everyone ready?  Then let's begin.
   If, for whatever reason, the FBI or CIA decided to set up surveillance of me, or if we all wound up in that voyeuristic society that Orwell wrote about, it's a sure bet that anyone watching me would either be bored to death, or to tears, in a matter of days, if not hours.
  I don't do anything particularly exciting.  I putter around the house, I read, I watch too much television.Sometimes, I go out with friends.  Sure, someone might for two seconds be intrigued on the strange hours I keep, but I'm a textbook insomniac, move along, not much to see here.  Let's be frank, I'm not that interesting.
   Most days, anyway.
The last six months have been, for a lack of a better word, more dramatic than usual.  I've talked about some of the reasons why in recent posts, but today, I'm going to talk about the rest of it.
I want to give people insight (at least I'll hope that's what this is) into what it's like to live with an as yet untreated mental illness.   I describe myself to my closest friends, as "A box of Fucked Up".  And I say that with great affection about myself.  I don't have any shame about it, and it's taken me a long time to say that.   I know I'm not my diagnosis(es)*yes, I have more than one*, and that in fact, I wouldn't be who I am today if I hadn't gone through all I've been through, even though it's left me with battle scars.   So, in terms of what the DSMIV would tell you, I have--drum roll, please---
(Reading from top to bottom)
Major depression (recurrent)
Anxiety disorder
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
DID(formerly known as MPD)-- in English, I have multiple personalities, or alters if you will.  Yes, the same thing Sybil had. Only I have twelve less than she had, I have four. (counting myself).  Sometimes they drive the car, sometimes I do.  Why/how do I have them?  That's a long, brutal depressing story that I don't like to dwell on.  The short answer is in my forty-eight years on the planet I've been repeatedly physically and emotionally abused, with some sexual crap in there just to keep things interesting.
And honestly, that's all I want to say about that.  I am NOT my diagnosis, I am NOT my illness, although in the past few weeks, I've been thinking, acting and believing like I am.
  That stops today.  Acting as if I am damaged in some way helps no one.  It makes me cranky.  It makes me lash out at the people I love the most.   I won't say it's stupid, but it's as close to stupid as it gets.
I want to be the best person I can, but after trying six different medications, and being in therapy for thirty of my forty-eight years on the planet, I just don't know.   I know I'll never be 'normal'.  I despise that word.
Mental illness has a stigma stronger than almost any other disease, including AIDS.  Even AIDS, nowadays is accepted more than mental illness still is not.  See, I look at that sentence and know it's going to get me into trouble, and I am torn between caring and not caring anymore.
  I am lucky to have one dear friend who's stuck it out these past two years, when my alters started manifesting more, who has held my hand through all of this, through the late night phone calls, and the screaming and crying, who has saved my life twice, who has talked me down from the figurative ledge a million times.  I will never understand why she stays, why she loves me why she's my best friend, but, as she says, she does, and that's all that should matter.   If I mention her name she'll kill me, so I'll just say, "Thank you sis....for EVERYTHING.." and she'll understand.
  I don't think my life will ever be normal.  But I hope, that by blogging about my experiences here, by sharing my thoughts, I can at least make one person, maybe just maybe THINK before they use the words 'normal' or 'crazy'.
So much is NOT known about most mental illnesses, so much disservice is done to people with Mental Illness by the media.  Right now I don't have the power to do much.  But I do hope, and hope so hard, that people will at least read here sometimes, and think twice before they judge.
A girl can dream, can't she?