Physics Lesson

An object at rest...

I've decided that I fit into the old example of 'object at rest'. I am the 'writer not writing' and the longer I'm at that, the harder it is for me to stop stopping. Adversely, the bigger a roll I'm on in writing, editing, or whatever, the harder it is for me to stop doing that.

Right now, if I could only learn from the above stated knowledge, I might get a lot better results from the- ahem - diet I'm not really on by not eating the Easter candy I purchased for my children. Those of you who shop in bulk know that Costco sells Jelly Belly (aka, Bertie Botts in my house) jelly beans in four pound buckets. After I've fished out all the sizzling cinnamon, coconut, and pina colada, it's amazing how the left-overs suddenly taste good enough to now be eaten.

I wasn't going to eat them all...


What I've been reading:

13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson--

I liked this story, though it took a while to grab me. (Must have been my own fault)

Nobody's Princess and its sequel, Nobody's Prize by Esther Friesner--

These were ok, felt kind of middle-grade to me, so definitely not my favorites.


Until next time, this is the Jelly Belly queen and her horde, signing out.

A Moment in Time

I had another birthday recently. Yeah, I know. There's at least one of those dratted things every year (seems like more than that, I swear). Thing was, this year's dreaded B-day was actually a happy event. Call me slow, but my facebook account is still aged by months, not years, and because my birthday is displayed, tons of my friends wished me a happy day.

Moreover, and better still, I had special time with three special someones that mean a lot to me. If my memory weren't already full of holes, I'd want to pack that day up in curlicues with confetti and balloons so that I could savor the moment whenever I felt blue. But alas, the memory is failing, much like the joints are creaking and the fat is settling (yikes!) and I must bottle happiness in more ways than one just to ensure that some of it survives for the future.

Praises to my well-wishers, you know who you are, and to every blessed light in the dark tunnel of life. May I find my way safely to the other side, or die laughing with a candle--even if it's a birthday candle.

Hard Knocks

Status: I'm whining. Pity party with a side of selfishness, indignation, and lots of WHINE. I want chocolate and cake and goodies and friends and anything that will bring on the slightest sense of happiness, no matter how false that sense may be and no matter how short-lived it turns out, or how much it will alter the evil bathroom scale... OK, strike that. I don't want the illusion, but I'll take the friends and chocolate. Or just the friends and a whiff of something delectable so I can refuse to have any and commence on self-punishment.

Poor MAP, you might say, what's the matter?

Nothing. Why do you ask? Because I'm whining? No, you see, I whine on a regular basis and you just haven't noticed yet. I growl a lot, too. And yell at unsuspecting relations and small, furry mammals (mostly dogs). But it's nice outside. The sun is shining, and I will shortly plunge into a dimension of pollen and outdoor messes to forget about the misery of living in a closed world that doesn't necessarily make sense and isn't necessarily fair, with all its rejection slips and lost/found bills that will never be paid, crusty laundry, dirty floors, and pint-sized ingrates.

Because it's not fair. More on that later (with or without whining, TBD).


What have I been reading???

love is a many trousered thing by Louise Rennison--

This is eighth in a long, seemingly unending series of British, funny teen-reads that I'm not sure counts as book reading. The really funny thing is that when I picked this up at the library, I wasn't sure if I'd already read it or not since I sometimes hole up at Borders, reading things I wouldn't want to buy but that my library hasn't stocked... Anyway, I got almost half-way through, skipped to the end, and verified that, yes, I did read this one. So how do I count it... uh... don't know.

Front and Center by Catherine Gilbert Murdock--

This one is third in a series called Dairy Queen. I liked the first book, didn't like the second, and kind of liked this one. Thing is, it's more of a literary teen book while I tend to like books of another kind better. Oh well.

And I am currently working on The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck--

Wow. Talk about long-winded. You know all those things that agents and editors say not to do? -like laundry list descriptions and unending paragraph after paragraph of narrative description- Well, it seems this is exactly the kind of writing that got one published fifty years ago. I'm not sure I'll ever finish reading this 'classic', or if I want to.



Tune in next time when frazzled MAP gets a life.

Rain

I decided I haven't written any poetry for a while. Afterward, I should definitely get back to writing one of those many, many books plaguing my mind. Or get dressed...

Anyway, here goes. I call it, RAIN

Wet and cold
the rain is falling
seeping
into low places
and filling them.

Grey and low
the clouds are stalling
blocking
out the sun
to make it dark.

Broken apart
my heart is calling
seeking
for peace
and warm comfort.

Back at the start
I am standing
stepping
through the rain
toward the finish.

And, what have I read? :::::

Fallen by Lauren Kate--

This book has a great idea and a great start, mystery, subtle clues, and a lot of pulling on the old heartstrings. Here it comes... But, I felt like the 'mystery' dragged out a bit much, leading into a very unfulfilling finale. The open-ended way the book left off did not make me want to read the sequel, though it does present some interesting questions-- like, 'What the hay is going on?'

Until next time, keep reading, keep writing, keep dreaming.

Ciao.

Spring Fever

No, I wasn't dreaming about Mr. Darcy, small child, so go ahead and wake me in the middle of the night. Tell me all about how you disobeyed your mother and refused to get in your bed, thereby getting so cold at... 1:30 AM... that you need to cry great tears of unhappiness and scream at me until I make it all better.

Yep. That's what I'm here for.

My wish for spring has finally come true. Oh thank you, Fairy God Mother, Elementals, weather people, and God in Heaven. Who do I thank for head colds and allergies? Hmmm? Bad fairies and the genetic pool. So warmer weather is here and I might just send one of my little helpers out wash the winter grime from my car, except that it's now raining. Which means I need to keep a close eye on the umbrellas.

I'm not sure if watching Mary Poppins as child affected my view of umbrellas, or if my imagination was demented from the beginning, but there's magic to be had by a child holding one of those rain-deflecting devices. When I was much smaller, and much stupider, I would climb to the top of my parents' house with an umbrella in hand, and poise at the edge of the roof with the opened contraption held up and out--and leap.

I never, ever broke my leg, arm, or other appendage, though I can't prove that the umbrella helped. When all the umbrellas were mysteriously broken, my siblings and I would form parachutes out of blankets, sheets, and even plastic grocery bags, and jump again. Someone always ratted us out--well meaning neighbors, the postman, a passing cop... My parents would be told and then I was in for the beating of a lifetime--did I want to go to the hospital? Maybe. If you can imagine, my parents never took me anywhere, so maybe the hospital would be cool.

Fast-forward a bit. My own children are not so fortunate as to live in a single-story house with an easy-climb tree growing over the roof in the backyard. No, they must resort to their own stupi--I mean, ingenuity to devise ways of inflicting, or missing as the case may be, bodily injury. Trust me, they do have ample opportunity and the umbrellas in my house do randomly disintegrate. Go figure.


Recent reads include:

Perfect Chemistry by Simone Elkeles--

Good enough, story wise, plot, writing and all the essentials... my only big complaint is in the language. I don't care much to read line after line of profanity, call me weird, but that's me.

Heist Society by Ally Carter--

I'm a big fan of the Gallagher Girls series, so reading this was no chore. Fast paced and fun, it's a book I can recommend to all my teen-reading friends.

No news is no news

I am so glad that February has left. Drat this global warming. It is so freaking cold. Now, if only spring would get here and bring an end to forty degree days, I think I would like that very well. There are many things I can blame on the weather, my stuffy nose and tendancy to hibernate... neglecting my blog is not one of them. For this, I shall blame something else entirely.

As soon as I think of it.

To date, my dreams of publication remain unrealized, except as dreams. My problems are many, but I think one of them is that for every novel completed, I have three or four other great book ideas come to me saying, "ooo, me next. Pick me!"

Honestly, it's worse than having six kids all talking at once. These come to me in quiet moments, whenever my brain is running from the others... And they won't shut up either.

This morning, I lay awake in my bed, watching the pictures behind my eyes take shape. Naturally, it was one of my novels--the one I'm supposed to be working on. I want so badly to finish it, but I know that if I turn away from the editing, it will never get done.

MUST. BE. STRONG.

Gaaahhh. I've recently had a brand new brainstorm for a really fantastic YA sci-fi-ish book that I will (of course) keep secret until it's written and the queries are going out. Those privy to the secret must keep quiet or suffer the pains of... uh... a really, really mad lady. Yeah. I'll sick my kids on you, then you'll be sorry.

On another front: resolutions are stupid. I may be reading and writing and visiting friends, but the back of my brain is stuck on watching those swelling digits from the bathroom scale. The weather is to blame.



And here are the books I've read:

Bella at Midnight by Diane Stanley--
not the most fantastic of stories, but one I enjoyed nonetheless

The Ropemaker by Peter Dickinson--
A fat enough book that I should have known... but still, I hoped for something spectacular, even after the slow beginning. Throughout the book, there were at least three times when I felt strongly that the story needed to end, yet it continued. On and on and on. And this is not to say that the man can't write, quite the contrary, Mr. Dickinson is a very talented writer. But, as this is my personal opinion and I can say whatever I like, after 375 pages I reached the end with the deflated sense of time wasted.