My house eats things. It's the ONLY explanation. I mean, how can my earbuds have disappeared when I never take them out of the room? I'd have Eli's stomach X-rayed if I suspected him, but he by far prefers money and paper napkins.
Oh, and I'd sure like to know what happened to my iPod connector.
And my brown Birkie sandals.
My favorite hoody.
A bottle of onion flakes.
My union contract.
Eli's new rabies tag.
A box of Keurig coffee I was going to take to work.
My brain?
- Current Mood:
discontent
That's fine, but not always possible. Even if you do get to know them--and people knew Ariel Castro--it doesn't mean you'll discover them holding prisoners in their homes. What, exactly, were his neighbors supposed to do? Demand to search his house? Even his friends and family members, the few times they visited, never insisted on venturing past the designated areas. They respected his boundaries. This is what well-mannered people do.
Yes, I know what the media means: Keep an eye out. Report anything suspicious. Watch out for strangers.
That's all well and good--but, truthfully, I wouldn't know a stranger on my street if I tripped over him on the sidewalk.
Aside from the people who live on either side of us, I don't know my neighbors. It was different when my kids were small and they were playing outside all the time. I kind of knew the moms, and we'd chat a bit, though with one exception we never really became friends. But those kids have grown up and their families have moved away. Now I have no idea who lives in those houses. I am not home in the evening when others are out, if they are out. We have no front porches to sit and chat and watch the goings-on.
Growing up, I knew everyone, and I knew all their stories. My friend C lived two doors down. My grandparents lived next to her. An Italian family lived next to my grandparents; the mom, whose voice could be heard all over the neighborhood, ratted us out whenever C and I did something she didn't approve up. Next to them, a family with two boys: On of them, D, age 7, died a terrible death when a stationary tub fell off the basement wall and landed on his chest. Though I was not allowed to go to the funeral, my grandmother was happy to give me the details: "His chin was purple, all mooshed in..."
Beyond D's house was a bungalow where the neighborhood pedophile lived. Yes, he was. Yes, everyone knew it, most of us from first-hand experience. No, he was never (to my knowledge) arrested for anything. We were simply warned by our parents to stay away from the creep.* He had one eye. To avoid him, I would cross the street on my way home from school. Years later I ran into him at Big Boy. I know he recognized me.
Between my house and C's was A. a family with a bunch of kids, mostly boys, the bullies of the street and the bane of my existence, and B. a childless middle-aged couple who once invited my brother and me over to watch The Wizard of Oz in color (till then I thought the whole movie was in black and white--amazing!) They drove a Cadillac that was almost bigger than our garage. On the other side of us was an older couple with a dog named Fritz that I often played with. Beyond them, a family with two girls I never befriended because, frankly, there were a couple of bitches; I learned a bitter lesson from them, that A.A. isn't at all "anonymous" when one smartly informed me that one of my family members was an alcoholic (as if I didn't know)--something they learned from a family member of their own. When I replied "fuck you" her mother informed my mother. I took my punishment without ever explaining why I said what I'd said.
Those were only the neighbors on my side of the street. Others I knew by sight and often by name. In the days before the Internet and cable TV, people--kids and parents alike--were out there in the neighborhood, visible in their yards, on the sidewalks, visiting with others in the evenings and on weekends. Would any of them, us, have known if someone was being held captive in a basement?
I will always wonder.
*Pedo-guy definitely could've gotten away with it.
Yes, my mom, the master manipulator and queen of cliches--and I mean that in the most loving and reverent way. She had her stock responses which, to this day, my siblings and I can recite by rote:
Whenever we messed with something we shouldn’t have messed with: “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
When we cried longer than deemed absolutely necessary: “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”
When we asked what unidentifiable food was sitting on our plate: “Arsenic. Eat it.” If we declined she'd remind us of all the "starving kids in Europe." Always Europe. Never China. (Warning: Do not offer to send it them...)
When responding to noises in another room: “Whatever you’re doing in there, cut it out!” (Warning: Do not say "snip, snip!")
When things didn’t work out because we didn’t follow directions: “Well, that’s what you get!”
When we tried to do X and she didn’t agree: “If you think you’re doing X, you’ve got another think coming!” If we argued about it, she'd demand to know if we were “out of skull” and then suggest, “You need to get your head examined.” If we continued to persist, she'd throw up her hand and say "Fine! Do what you want!" which meant we sure as hell better NOT do what we wanted if we planned to live long enough to celebrate our next birthdays.
When my sister and I got a bit too big for our britches: “Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?” (Word to the wise: Do NOT answer "yes" to this question, nor infer that you're merely Princess Anne...)
When we said “So what?” she’d snark back: “Sew buttons on your pants.”
When something in general simply didn't work out: "Well, that's the end of that."
When we misbehaved she'd threaten to “send you to Jones Home.” Yes, there really was a Jones Home for wayward children. Once she went far enough to pack my suitcase. I was traumatized into my best behavior for weeks. Years, actually.
When we fought we were warned to “Keep you mitts to yourselves.” Always mitts. Never hands.
When we refused to do something, she'd say “All right for you” in a very hurt tone, which usually made us give in. Of course her ultimate guilt trip was “One of these days I’ll be dead and THEN you’ll be sorry."
Yeah, she was right about that one.
Funny how the things that annoyed you most about a person, you look back on with fondness once they’re no longer with you. The way she freely called females “broads” and “dames” in the midst of the women’s lib revolution. How, when we asked for funds for something special, she insisted she wasn’t “made of money”; then, when we protested that all our friends were going, she’d then ask if we’d planned to join them on their trip off the bridge.
Yes, she was tight with a dollar; as adults, if we encouraged her buy something for herself or take a vacation, she’d insist she needed that “like I need another hole in my head.”
She loved Sam Hill, whoever he was, and often invoked his name, as in “What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”
She loved Ricardo Montalban, coyly confiding that he was free to “put his shoes under my bed any day of the week” and Shirley Temple--"They sure don't make 'em like that anymore."
She loved animals; our house was never without at least one cat and one dog, and often more than one of each. She’d build bird and squirrel feeders (along with shrines to St. Francis in every backyard she owned) to ensure that no critter went hungry over the winter. She rescued baby birds and nursed them back to health, and fostered dogs; one of my earlier memories is of Daisy, an Old English sheepdog, licking my face. I probably wasn’t more than three years old at the time.
It was my mom who introduced to me to the magic of the public library, starting with the Little House series when I was seven. She loved to write; I think, in another time, under different circumstances, she might’ve become a writer herself. She loved music and played the piano. Blessed with a beautiful singing voice, she once recorded the song “Always” for my dad. If something struck her as funny, she'd laugh and laugh and laugh till, quite literally out of air, she actually wheezed--which of course made everyone around her laugh harder.
She wasn't a perfect mother by a long shot. Then again, she didn't have perfect parents herself. She did not have a perfect husband. She didn't have perfect children. My home life was often an unbearable train wreck; as a depressed, introverted kid I'd agonize over this, convinced that NO one had a family more F'ed up than mine. Only as an adult did I realize how far from the truth that was.
My mom was never one to discuss personal feelings. Once, not long before she died, I tried to talk out some of the issues of my childhood. I'd wanted to understand, to explore, blah, blah--or so I'd convinced myself at the time. Maybe, being selfish and self-centered and dealing my own load of baggage, I'd simply wanted to confront her. When I questioned her parenting skills, my mother grew rigid, looked me straight in the eye, and said, tearfully, "I did the best I could."
I was so ashamed.
Though my mom didn't live long enough for my own children to know her, they "heard" her every day whenever I opened my mouth: "Are you outta your skull?" "Get your mitts off that!" "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" "Sew buttons on your pants!" And, best of all, "Arsenic--EAT IT," an expression even my husband occasionally blurts out.
What is my mother's first greatest gift to me? My children. I see her whenever I look into my son's eyes. I hear her whenever my daughter exclaims over an animal in need.
Her next best gift is the gift of serenity. With every year that passes, my appreciation for my mother grows and flourishes. I understand her now. Though I need her less, it's like I want her back more if only for more time to get to know her better. Love is a tenuous thread that can either be broken or knotted. Mothers tie the knots. Children, even as adults, try to jerk them free. With her strained words--"I did the best I could"--she instantly stopped me from ripping that thread.
Manipulation? Maybe.
Well, thank God it worked. No, I am not defined by my past. I can see beyond the bad and continue to be grateful, eternally grateful, for all of the good things that fill my life. My mother was part of it.
All these years later, when I gather with my family and we talk about my mom, about her expressions and goofy habits and idiosyncrasies, and how my sister and I are so much like her ("No, you are!" "No, you are!")...it's absolutely true:
I laugh and laugh and laugh till I wheeze.
2. Tomorrow sweet Corey will be making his First Communion!
Luckily I got someone to work for me so I'll be able to attend. :)
3. I really need a place to write. I used to have a place to write: A little room all to myself. Then one day my darling son showed up with 10 tons of computer parts and *poof*--there went my room. My desk. My chair. Everything. Seriously, MY OWN SON STOLE MY OFFICE. I'm like, "Dude, WHA--???" True, I wasn't using it at the time because we'd had that flood and the room was trashed--but still. Since then I've been writing at the kitchen table or on my lap in the living room. I need a desk, a private cubby, but there's none to be had in this house. *whine*
4. I guess when you start tracking dirt from your house outside, it's definitely time to mop your floor.
5. Eli is not afraid of foxes. The foxes are not afraid of Eli. Is that because they know there's a fence between them? Eli stands there and barks--and it's a very different bark, neither his "Git off my property, you bastard!" bark nor his "Hey, let's play!" bark--while the fox simply stares at him a curious expression. Sometimes they're only 15 to 30 feet apart. These gorgeous critters (there are several) seem to be quite comfortable in this neighborhood, which is weird. I do not live in the country, just a typical suburb.
spring
is
here...
...and I'm lazier than this cat.
To do list:
1. Clean
2. Write
3. Clean
4. Write
5. CleanWriteCleanWriteCleanWriteCleanWrite.
Wanted: MOTIVATION
Generous Reward Offered
Generous Reward Offered
What I want to know is: WHAT TOOK THEM 4 DAYS TO COME BACK WITH A VERDICT?
Can I just say how thrilled I am that this circus is over? I'm so tired of seeing her superior smirk whenever I turn on the TV. Admit it: There's NO ESCAPE! Oy, all that phoney boo-hooing? Even when they read the verdict today, and her poor sweet face crumbled like a graham cracker under your shoe, there wasn't--as usual--a single tear to be seen.
Yes, I'm an avid true crime fan. I'd say it's my morbid little secret, but seriously, it's no secret. I'm addicted to the shows. I follow most of the major trials. I pray I'm reincarnated as Ann Rule one day. But I found this unbearable, primarily for 3 reasons:
1) Did we really need to hear all that sex stuff? Really? REALLY? I mean, after 2 or 3 weeks, we got the gist, okay?
2) It monopolized the late night news shows when there were so many other things going on. Things that did not involve Jodi Arias.
(Jodi: "What? I'm not important?!?")
3). They put her on the stand.
Seriously. Her "brilliant" lawyer PUT HER ON THE FREAKIN' STAND. And kept her on the stand for what felt like two years and let her simper and yammer, and fake-boo-hoo, and do that irritating smirk thing, and flounce and aaaargue and, oh, did I mention LIE her sociopathic, borderline, entitled little tush off? Now watch her claim inadequate/incompetent counsel and demand a new trial.
Guess what? She'll probably get it. And not take the stand.
Bye-bye for now, Jodi. By the way, Toots, if you think jail is bad--
3/28/13 HLN News/Jane Velez Mitchell: "Reports claim that Jodi Arias and other inmates only eat 2 meals a day and sometimes those meals are more than 12 hours apart. A friend of the Arias family says that Jodi Arias is woken up in the middle of the night. Wednesday Jodi Arias brought the trial to a halt complaining of migraines."
--wait till you get to you-know-where.
In 2002, Michelle Knight, 20, disappeared after visiting her cousin. One year later, Amanda Berry, 16, never returned home after her shift at a local Burger King. In 2004, 14-year-old Gina DeJesus vanished on her way from school. The abductions happened all in the same area, two on the same block. By now everyone has heard the joyous news that Michelle, Amanda, and Gina have been found—unbelievably, only several miles away from where they originally were taken.
Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus
For a good part of my childhood, I lived in that neighborhood and attended the same elementary school as Gina, though of course many years earlier. At that time it was a cozy, mostly white, working-class neighborhood with a small Hispanic population. Some areas were shabby and somewhat questionable; others were meticulously cared for, bordering on gracious.
Though it seems impossible by today’s standards, I walked to school from kindergarten on. Starting in first grade, this meant I also had to come for lunch, which entailed crossing two four-lane streets (W. 105th and West Boulevard) by myself. Being a lollygagger and a daydreamer, I often arrived home for lunch precisely in time for me to turn right around and head back to school.
It was a neighborhood where people watched out for each other’s children—not only to keep them safe, but to rat them out to their parents if they were, oh, say, running on lawns or teasing dogs or throwing rocks at windows of abandoned buildings, Trust me, you got away with nothing in those days. While we swam at Sunrise in the summer, skated at the old Rollercade on Denison Avenue, and hung out at the playground at Wilbur Wright Junior High--all without any parental supervision--the ghost of Beverly Potts hovered over all of us.
No way could you grow up on the west side of Cleveland and not know about Beverly, who disappeared on her way home from Halloran Park back in 1951.
The warnings given to us by our parents, “Don’t talk to strangers” and “Don’t get into a car with someone you don’t know” were often supplemented with, “You don’t want to end up like Beverly Potts.” Hers was a cautionary tale we took very seriously because, back in those days, kids (or so it seemed) simply didn’t vanish into thin air. If they were kidnapped and murdered, their bodies were found. Beverly’s disappearance remains a mystery to this day.
While my old neighborhood has grown tougher and shabbier over the years, the makeup of this area has little to do with what happened to Gina, Michelle, and Amanda. As in the Jaycee Dugard case, these girls, now young women—one with a child—were kidnapped and held captive for years by a man who can only be best described as a monster. How eerie is it that this scumbag Ariel Castro (whose two brothers have also been arrested) passed as a "regular" guy, school bus driver of all things, who barbequed with his neighbors, played the bass guitar in local haunts, and even friended a relative of Gina on Facebook?
How bizarre is it that his very own son wrote a newspaper article about Gina's disappearance without suspecting his father was involved?
How is it possible that these girls were imprisoned for a decade and more, and nobody knew? Nobody suspected?
“Watch who your neighbor is, because you never know,” said Sandra Ruiz, Gina’s aunt, on Fox 8 News this morning.
It’s so terrifying that she’s right: You never know.
“If you don’t believe in miracles,” she added, “I suggest you think again.”
Gina and Amanda’s families never gave up hope. They regularly held vigils. They kept their loved ones’ names in the local and often national news. They appeared on TV shows like America’s Most Wanted and Oprah. To this day you can’t walk down Lorain Avenue without seeing the faces of these girls taped to windows and telephone poles. Thankfully Amanda had the courage to break free at last, and God bless Charles Ramsey, the neighbor who raced to her aid.
“Sisterhood…” Sandra Ruiz’s single word broke my heart. “What we did in ten years is nothing compared to what those women did to survive.”
Please keep them all in your prayers.
Teacher Buys Student "50 Shades of Grey" and Ticks off Mom.
Maybe it wasn't a chuckle. Maybe more of a snort.
In a nutshell, a teacher (I assume he's an English teacher) bought this book for a ninth-grade male student. The book was on the kid's "wish list." I have no idea why the teacher bought the book, which seems to be what everyone is objecting to. No teacher ever bought me book, but...whatever.
Disclaimer: I haven't read the book myself. I don't read erotica. But you'd have to LIVE UNDER A FREAKING ROCK to not know what this book is about. The teacher claims ignorance. Seriously? For his stupidity alone the man should be fired.
My reading material was never censored by my parents. I still remember one teacher's horrified reaction when he saw me carrying around Valley of the Dolls. That was pretty racy stuff back in those days. Still, no teacher gave me a copy--I got it from the library, which this young man could just as easily have done, or purchased it himself from a local bookstore.
If kids want to read something, particularly a book that's gotten so much publicity (again, funny the KID knew about the book, but not the teacher) they'll find a way. I'm more concerned about the questionable character of this teacher who is highly educated and teaching English to children, yet insists he had no clue was what Fifty Shades was about. The man admitted he went online and ordered it with his own money. Did he see NOTHING ELSE about this book on the Internet? Did he even read the description?
"No, I-I swear, I just ordered the book! With my eyes closed!"
2. I just tried to read a novel that started in 1911-ish...then proceeded to jumped back and forth between 2005, 1975, 1913, 2005, 1903, 1913, 2005, the seventies, etc. I managed to stick with it when it only involved two main characters. When a third was introduced, and stories-within-a-story were added, I almost threw it across the room. I refrained. It's a borrowed book.
3. Sunday is Orthodox Easter (or "Kosher" Easter as Grandma calls it.) I'm also church-hopping again, so I'll be visiting a new one that day.
"OMG! That's Jen! In CHURCH!"
4. I'm guessing paper towels/napkins/etc. are perfectly digestible since Eli's been eating them on a regular basis. Paper currency he simply shreds.
5. I hope everyone has a great weekend!
This film is so much more than what I expected, i.e. a transgendered woman returning to her hometown in Montana (from New York) for the first time since her transition. Though her family and friends are surprisingly (and touchingly) accepting, she has to deal with her adoptive brother who suffers from a traumatic brain injury and severe, often dangerous mood swings, several of which disturbingly appear on screen. Also, though Kim initially appears to have made peace with herself, it becomes evident later on that she's never fully dealt with the ghost of the person she used to be. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! Available on Netflix.
Amazon description: Returning home to a small town in Montana for her high school reunion, filmmaker Kimberly Reed hopes for reconciliation with her long-estranged adopted brother, Marc. But along the way she uncovers stunning revelations, including Marc's blood relationship with Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth, intense sibling rivalries and unforeseeable twists of plot and gender that forces them to face challenges no one could imagine.
Winner of Thessaloniki Documentary Film Festival's FIPRESCI prize, Jury Award for Best Documentary at Newfest, and Special Jury Prizes for Bravery in Filmmaking at the Florida and Nashville Film Festivals, Prodigal Sons is a raw and provocative examination of one family's struggle to come to terms with its past and present.
Have I mentioned she's a maniac? Yes, she's a maniac. Also, quite talented: She can burp on command! Not just your ordinary burp--a long, earsplitting, drawn-out belch that instantly makes you check the front of your shirt. In her ultimate wisdom, she taught her grandson to do the same. He took advantage of that and would speak in "burps" when he was small rather than answering my questions. Um, I think he still does that...
When she laughs, it's a loud, hearty belly laugh that can be heard down the halls of her nursing home. She tools around with a wheeled walker decorated with stuffed animals and Hawaiian leis, stopping to chat with long-time residents and nurses whose names she can no longer remember. She flirts with the EMTS who pass through to cart off her neighbors ("Hmm, that one's cute!"). Though she can't tell you what she had for dinner five minutes ago, she knows exactly what time they serve ice cream on every unit.
"This is MY hamburger. DON'T TOUCH IT!"
With Grandma now in the moderate stages of Alzheimers, our conversations are circular--stuck in "The Loop" as Beth calls it. Little hints every now and then warn us that, sadly, if she does live to be 100 as she so often threatens us, she may not recognize us anymore. After her last trip to the hospital she briefly forgot my name. When Nate visited her the other day, without the rest of the family around as a cue, she continuously asked him, "How's Nate?" She obviously identified him as part of the family. But something was missing.
We are prepared. In the meantime, though, we are truly blessed to have her.
HAMMING IT UP!
I've officially declared April SLUMP MONTH for me. My concentration sucked. I was distracted by so many things in the news (including the Boston bombers, several sensational local homicides, and a very bitter school strike) that I found it impossible to tear myself away from the stories, the blogs, and the message boards.
Adderall, anyone?
I supposed everyone deserves a few weeks of playtime now and then. But for someone who generally has a stick-to-it attitude, I disappointed myself. I claim writers don't have the luxury of waiting to "be in the mood" to write, and yet I'm the one who used this same excuse all month: "I'm not in the mood. Wahhhhh!"
Anyway...though a revised-revised-revised synopsis wasn't on the menu for April, that is done.
May goals: Continue to revise Berta project while feedback on LMB project is pending.
AND BLOG, for pete's sake. One note a day for the month of May. Pinkie promise.
Sigh.
(Got the "mom finger" going on here...)
Beautiful kids of Hubbard, thank you so much for sharing your time with me.
FEBRUARY
Complete synopsis of LMB
Send proposal and synopsis to agent for review
MARCH
APRIL
???
Original goals were to write a synopsis for Berta and submit proposal for review. However, I've had to reevaluate this.
I surpassed my 100-page goal and actually got to page 167 before I was forced to face a serious logic flaw in the story.
No, this didn't hit me all at once: I'd "kind of" noticed it from the beginning, though I thought the way I'd written could be believable in a DUH-it's-a-paranormal! sort of way. I mean, heck, I believed it.
Of course I did. I wrote it.
Then I stopped believing it. I mean, seriously: A box, okay? The contents of which need to get back to Germany. Nobody can take it there for reasons that are quite clear in the story. The contents of the box do have certain powers and already managed to get it from one place to another (though with a bit of human assistance.) Therefore, it made perfect sense to me that the box could also make its way to Germany.
So without human help, the box shows up in Germany very mysteriously. My characters knock themselves out trying to figure out who sent it. It appears no one did...cuuuuz...it's a paranormal, right?
This nagged at me for 4 months. I discussed it with Beth, who was noncommittal.
ME: "It's a paranormal, right?????"
BETH (eyeroll): "Um, yeah...okay."
ME (thinking): "I sooo do NOT want to rewrite the whole damn thing."
Then I had lunch with
another_wip. We discuss it. I whine. She listens. I whine some more:
"Soooo....okay, what I'm worried about is this: The box GETS to Germany, okay? So the characters can find out who it belongs to." Which is the crux of that part of the story: Getting the contents of the box back to where it belongs. "SO WHY DIDN'T THE STUPID BOX JUST GO STRAIGHT WHEREVER IT REALLY WANTS TO GO?" Which of course would render my characters useless. And there would be no story.
Pam agreed.
I thought about it all day.
I woke up out of a dead sleep at 4 a.m. the next morning with one single thought in my brain: I have to rewrite the whole damn thing.
Not actually the WHOLE thing--just the stupid, unbelievable, totally contrived part about a box mysteriously FedExing itself on a transatlantic journey.
GOD, it was such an awesome idea at the time! The creepy old box showing up out of the blue. My characters' horrified reactions. Their search for an explanation, only to find none. Their realization that a dark force, indeed, was very much at work there.
Yeah, great. But even PARANORMAL has to be somehow grounded in reality. Everything has to add up, make sense in the end. I realized after much consideration that this particular plot device sucked.
The problem now is this: All that great mystery and intrigue? Gone. Which means it Must Be Replaced.
REVISED APRIL GOAL: Make it work!
- Current Mood:energetic
1. That I'd seen it before.
2. That I'd hated it.
Why am I watching it again? Maybe for the same reason I try to read The Scarlet Letter every 10 years--to see if I hate it less? Actually I don't "remember" movies. I remember I've seen them, just not the details. Even now it's like watching W&R for the first time. I don't remember a thing.
I do, however, remember now why I hated it.
IT'S BORING!
Not only is it boring--hours and hours of sailors wandering around on ships (should we blow up the japs? yeah. no. wait. here they come. fire! no wait! run! go get me a cigarette) and hours and hours of Jewish immigrants wandering through Italy (we have to escape! okay let's go. wait. we can't. when? later. okay. here come the gestapo! hide! no wait. false alarm. go make me some soup)--but it's crappy writing.
You hear me? CRAPPY WRITING! And this is why:
Remember how I bitched about the stupid characters in this movie though I DID admit (somewhere) that it's the stupidity of such characters that kept the story (and other stories) interesting? Oh my God. It's so true.
My apologizes to Ali McGraw: Though I doubt anyone ever considered your acting worthy of an Academy Award, I didn't realize how much you brought to this miniseries until your character Natalie was replaced with Jane Seymour. I am not saying Jane Seymour is worse than you. (OK, people--no matter how many times I re-word that last sentence, it's going to offend either Jane Seymour or Ali McGraw; I'm leaving it as is.)
Ali McGraw, they say, was too old for the part by the time they made the sequel. Frankly, she was too for the first one. Attitude wise, she was a perfect Natalie: Passionate, snarky, she put up with NO crap. What do they do? First they replace her with Seymour who, in the looks department, is about as believable as a Polish Jew as Whoopi Goldberg. Next, they turn her into the biggest ethnic Mary Sue on the face of the planet.
(As an aside, they also replaced Briny because Jan-Michael Vincent was A. also too old, and B. unreliable, and you know what THAT means)
I realize the author helped write the screenplay. So, was it senility? Lots of cash? Blame it on the director? WHAT???
Natalie in Winds of War tells an SS officer her name is "Mona Lisa" and practically flips him off.
Natalie in War and Remembrance whimpers to her supposed Israeli rescuer: "Oh, can't we leave tonight? There's a big bad maaaan here! I don't like the way he looooks at me! I am so afraid he's going to sneak into my room tonight and have his nasty old waaay with me!"
Ali McGraw's Natalie would've waited up for the dude with a butcher knife under her pillow.
What am I getting at? Why is this "crappy writing?" CONSISTENCY IN CHARACTERS. Herman Wouk wrote a masterpiece. It wouldn't be considered a masterpiece if everyone who read it threw it across the room, frustrated with wishy-washy characterizations. I don't think it's entirely unfair to compare novel writing with screenwriting; you still have characters that your audience wants--needs--to connect to. Maybe a lot of this does have to do with the director. It's Dan Curtis, after all: The king of visible booms, and prop boys skulking in the background.
Also, this running-from-the-Nazis thing has gone on way too long. This series is ENDLESS! I'm ready to drop the atomic bomb myself. Better yet, drop a dime on Natalie. ANYTHING to end this movie! Sill I keep watching it.
Go figure.
Eleven-freaking-thirty! This time change is kicking my butt as usual. This is after working day shift this weekend and NOT sleeping for two nights in a row. Seriously, it has to be psychological. But whatever it is, twice a year my circadian rhythm gets blown to shreds.
I'm on page 74 (of first revisions) of killernazidoll, which from now on I'll simply refer to as BERTA. "Killernazidoll" makes her sound as if she's the killer when in fact her original owner was the murderous maniac. Though Berta has her personality flaws (ornery, manipulative,downright nasty at times) she hasn't actually "killed" anyone; therefore, she has informed she is annoyed by the misnomer.
I do not want to annoy Berta in the middle of revisions.
26 pages to go to meet my end-of-the-month goal.
Surprisingly, though this was a NaNoWriMo project, it's not in as terrible shape as I feared. What I've found mostly is this:
1. A lot of repetition, hopefully resolved.
2. Lack of physical description of the characters.
3. Inconsistencies in the speech patterns of one character whose first language isn't English (this one is killing me.)
4. A lot of scenes involving the MC and her mother. Maybe too many? True, Mom gets virtually written out by the middle of the story, but plays a big role in the beginning. I wonder how much is "too" much...
5. Remember those scenes I started and then ended in the middle because I couldn't figure out how to end them and I wanted to hit my 50K? Yep, there's a lot of 'em.
6. Time line screw-ups, also mostly resolved (so far).
7. A character whose profession changes from chapter to chapter--NOT yet resolved.
8. A character who was alive in the first draft, and then I decided to kill her off prior to the start of the story, now keeps turning up ALIVE in later chapters. Disturbing.
Other than these little speed bumps, I'm enjoying the revision process and am absolutely in love with my two main characters. 13 days left to wrap this up!
Program A: For the duration of their stay, patients have no visitors, no phone calls, no personal electronics, and watch a community TV.
Program B: Patients walk around with cell phones, play on their lap tops (hurray for wifi) and hang out with anyone from the street who wanders in to visit. I've learned each patient room will soon have its own cable TV.
Which program do you suppose has the higher success rate for long-term sobriety? Well, just the fact that these patients aren't making drug deals during their hospitalization, or having their buds slip them bud/smack/crack/blow/whatever during visiting hours...um, I'd have to guess A.
Now which program do you think is funded solely by taxpayer dollars?
Well, it's not A.
I love setting goals.
As my Grapemo goals have been reached, it's time to set others.
First, February goals in review:
Complete synopsis of LMB
Send proposal and synopsis to agent for review
Goal for March:
Complete 100 pages of revisions for KND
Goals for April
Write a synopsis for KND
Submit proposal for review
Writing a synopsis for LMB was a nightmare. I don't have a first draft, only 100 or so readable pages and...well, now I have a synopsis. The story itself is, essentially, still in my head. Writing a detailed (5 pages, single-spaced) synopsis for a story I haven't actually written was an experiment in terror. Happily, as I've been assured, a proposal synopsis isn't carved in stone.
With KND, however, the first draft is already written. Though writing a synopsis is never easy (frankly I'd rather floss my teeth with a razor blade) at least I have a decent foundation and won't feel as if I'm making it up on the spot.
Anyone care to share YOUR new goals?
And that's absolutely all I've had time for today.
It still feels spectacular!
*DRUMROLL*
Neva, you've won your choice of a B&N or Amazon gift card and also your choice of a signed copy of one of my books. I'm emailing you now. :)
Again, THANKS YOU ALL OF YOU who participated this year and made Grapemo a smashing success for all of us!
See you next February!
FINAL
GRAPEMO 2013
UPDATES
GRAPEMO 2013
UPDATES
The TEASER DRAWING will be held later today (I need an objective person around to draw the name, lol) and the WINNER will be announced around 6 p.m. (EST). If anyone still hasn't submitted their monthly progress reports, I'll be happy to add it later today.
CONGRATS TO ALL OF YOU!
Akoss: "Last week of February was rough on me but I've managed to get two chapters out of grapemo. "That's two chapters I didn't have in January. Thank you!!!"
another_wip: "I managed an average of 2 pages a day...some days were a lot more, some days nothing but critting or research. But since I only promised 1 a day... I am satisfied with 2. THIS Month (March) I am going to try to buckle down and aim for 500 words a day {no GrapeMo to keep me motivated...sigh. But I am determined to do it even if just for me!)"barbarabaker "Can't believe February is over. I worked hard on revisions for one of my middle-grade novels and when I was finished I gave it to a reader whose judgement I trust. I got it back a few days ago. Overall it seems to be working -- just one major thing to work on, and that is not going to be too difficult. And the little things shouldn't take too long. So I'm working on it again, and I'm hopeful that I'll be done in a few weeks. I'm pleased with my progress toward my goals even though I didn't start the other ms. Grapemo was just what I needed. Thanks so much. Hope everyone else had a good writing month."edgyauthor: "My goal for Grapemo was to complete twelve comic strips, which I barely managed to achieve on the 28th!"fandoria: "This week, even though I've still been fighting killer allergies, I pushed through it and wrote every single day. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't let all my progress this month go to waste. I'm going to keep writing at least 15 minutes a day from here on out. Overall, Grapemo has been a huge success for me. The past two years have had huge life changes for me (starting to home school T, moving across the country, and then moving again 6 months later when we bought our new house) and writing completely fell to the wayside. I attempted a few times to pick it back up only to fail miserably. But now that my life is starting to settle down a bit, I decided Grapemo was the perfect vehicle to make writing a daily habit for me again. And it was. I haven't been as diligent about writing every day as I could have been, but I can say that I've written more this month than I have in two years. I'm thinking about writing more and more, my characters are starting to talk to me again, and I'm confident I can keep going even though Grapemo is over. Thanks for hosting Grapemo every year, for all the encouragement and support, and thanks to all the Grapenuts too!"Kathie C: "Kathie C. -- my pwg was to write a rough draft for one chapter of my book on aging. I managed to write 2953 words, so I almost got there but have another section to write. But I'm happy and THANKS to Jen for providing the nudge and her time and encouragement; the month went FAST!!!"
kbaccellia: "I actually was able to do at least one chapter of revisions during the weekday this last month. It all kind of went down hill when our drainage pipe broke. Such a pain. I was so worried sick about the cost of repairs that I 'forgot' to send over some teasers!"Laura B: "I've managed to piss off a NY Times bestselling author and her fans. I've probably written about 2000 words for the whole month. I'm moving to Arizona in June and I'm freaking out."
lizjonesbooks: "Due to unforeseen life craziness, I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped, but I did bookmap the whole darn novel!!!! Woo hoo!! And while I still have a bit of historical information to add here and there, I can already see that this is going to strengthen the final product, and allow me to focus in more intensely on language and style during the writing itself, rather than getting hung up on every page by which event to put in next, as is my usual writing pattern. So.... thank you, Grapemo! :D"melissawyatt "My goal was "a good start" on a new project. I finish Grapemo 2013 with three chapters of a new YA that I'm pretty happy with. I'm definitely going to call it a good start because I'm getting a feel for where the story could go, getting a feel for the voice but most importantly, I am already in love with my MC. Coming out of a year of not writing much of anything at all due to some serious professional discouragement, I feel like I have my writing feet under me again. Grapemo came around at just the right time when I had made some firm resolutions and Grapemo provided a welcome platform to declare myself back in the game. Thanks to Jeannine and congratulations to all of the Grapemo participants for having the courage to put one word in front of another. Keep on keeping on!"Michelle H: "Well... this month I moved my mother-in-law into assisted living, helped my father-in-law prepare for open heart surgery, filled out the FAFSA with an 18-year-old, helped my husband dig through receipts to prepare our taxes, had a houseguest, did a magazine interview at my home, delivered a kid (the goat kind), and those were just the out-the-ordinary things that fell into my lap while working part time and dealing with the daily crises that come along with two teenagers, one college student, a house and a farm. It’s a miracle, but... I did accomplish some writing! Per my goal, I dusted off the old WIP, reread it, and decided to let it gather a little more dust. As a result, I got a decent start on a new project that’s been tugging at my heartstrings for a good while. It’s starting to take shape before my eyes, and although that shape is a bit blob-ish right now, at least it has some form, which is more than I could say at the start of the month. Thanks for the nudge! It’s been Grape!"
Neva F: "Feb 24th (sun) - 1 hour; Mon: 2 hrs 30 min; Tues: 1 hour; Wed: 3 hours;Thurs: 1 hour (so far, but sticking with it); Total for the week: 7 hours and 30 minutes; TOTAL FOR THE MONTH: week 1: 11 hrs 30 min/ week 2: 9 hrs/ week 3: 17 hrs 45 min/ week 4: 7 hrs 30 min = 45 hours and 45 min (wow, easy to remember... lol)! Yes, I did meet all my goals... Dusted off an old ms, made new and hopefully improved changes, and most importantly, got to read snippets from the group and that gave me great pleasure..."
onegrapeshy: "Although I came in right under the wire, I did manage to revise all my proposal pages, completely revamp the synopsis, and send both off to be reviewed by my agent. This was SO DIFFICULT for me to do for many reasons, not the least of which was old killernazidoll lurking in the wings. Another prior commitment, an upcoming workshop, also took up a great deal of my time. More than once I thought I'll NEVER get all of this done!...so yes, there were some pretty hairy moments to be had. But all of you inspired me just as much as you say I've inspired you--and that's why I love doing Grapemo each year. For that--thank you!"Sher T: "While I didn't completely finish first edits on all fifteen chapters, I did finish first edits on 13 chapters, and final edits on six. So, all in all not terrible. Plan on finishing the last 2 chapters on Saturday, and the final edits by next Thursday, and if all goes well, God willing and the creek don't rise, I'll send this sucker off on Friday next."
swhisted: "With a low workload at work again this week, I was able to add an additional 3,079 words to Dreamsters in the past four days. That brings my total Grapemo word count to: 15,697 words!!! It’s hard to believe that in the first few days of the month, I was worried I’d have a hard time reaching my 5K goal now that I’ve tripled it. Grapemo gave me the push I needed to get into the meat of this story and now I can’t imagine stopping until it’s complete. I have this pleasant feeling of accomplishment that I haven’t had for a long time and I’m really grateful for Grapemo playing a part in it.I wish it wasn’t over, but I already can’t wait to participate again next year!"Vickie M: "Yes, I met all my goals. Have some critics that seem to be taking a lot of time with my book. I think this a positive sign that I will have some help. Then, I edited a good bit myself, basically changing the tenses to the present. Going to put this altogether and see how it works. There was a big time lapse from when I started writing it, to continuing it much later, basically finishing it now. Thus, the constant shift of tenses. Lastly, as mentioned before, I am isolating paragraphs like we did for the teasers, and this is a great help in editing. The best part of the group was the teasers. Feels so good to see it all in print, and read what others are doing. And that's about it. : }}}"
Can't wait to see all the progress we've made!
I've not yet reached my goal, but I hope to today.
Wait. "Hope" is lame. Hope has no place here. You hope for things you have no control over.I can hope it doesn't snow today. I can hope no one rear-ends me on my way to work.
When setting goals, you can't "hope" to reach them: You plan to reach them. If you realize you can't reach them, you adjust your goals.
Therefore, let me rephrase it: I fully intend to reach my goal today. If I can't finish all 4 pages of my synopsis, I will finish 3. Or I will at least finish this last paragraph that's been kicking my ass for 2 hours.
Yep, this is what GRAPEMO's all about!
Hang in there and good luck to all of you! xox
Revisions are way funner.
You have a mess of a story. Characters with no development. Scenes that end in the middle of nowhere. 20 pages of useless description...or no description at all. Time lines that make no sense. Mysteriously disappearing characters, or ones who appear once out of nowhere. Talking heads. Utterly useless dialogue that was fun to write, but doesn't advance the story and takes up space. Plot points that are forgotten by the middle of the manuscript...or the One Brilliant Idea you think of at the second to last page and now you can't figure out how to work it in.
Here are some GREAT REVISION TIPS FROM
aprilhenry.When you revise, you take ALL of this jumble and turn it into something readable. Kind of like Bones when she discovers all those charred random body parts and--voila!--turns it into a human being. OK, a dead one. Maybe a bad analogy. But you get my point.
It's a painstaking process. I can write a first draft in 6 weeks. A first "good" revision takes me many months and even then it's not something I'm always ready to share. But damn--it's FUN! It's like digging your hands into a big wad of clay. You can do whatever you want with it.
(Maybe not THIS, though...)
I was addicted to it from the first minute of the first episode. Now it's simply...monotonous.
And the characters are STUPID.
Premise, for those of you who don't watch it: A diabolical serial killer uses the Internet to create a Following to carry out his wishes, which include kidnapping his son. Kevin Bacon, an FBI agent who once had an affair with the serial killer's wife, is trying to get the son back. You never know "who" belongs to this Following. For instance, last night it turned out to be one of the FBI agents.
KB's character is not brilliant.
In last week's episode he finds the farmhouse where the Followers are holding the boy. The FBI tells him to wait for back-up. Does he wait for back-up? (Let's hear it!) It ends badly for the local cop he's with. Then of course he goes into the house himself. Alone.
I realize characters need to do stupid things in order to make the story exciting. But some stupid things simply defy belief.
He finds the boy. While he is standing at the bottom of the stairs WITH HIS BACK TO THE REST OF THE HOUSE, talking the boy at the top of the stairs, one of the bad guys sticks a gun to his head. Obviously KB never watched Jodie Foster's training session in Silence of the Lambs.
This week's episode: So KB is now stuck in the living room with two bad guys and one bad chick. They take his gun.
Bad Guy #1 to Bad guy #2: Tie him up.
Bad guy #2 hesitates.
Bad guy #1: Tie him up!
KB: Yeah, c'mon, tie me up. I'll snap your neck.
BG #2: He says he'll snap my neck.
BG #1: No he won't.
BG #2: Yes he will. He's FBI! He's trained to do that sort of thing!
KB (smugly): Yep.
BG #1: Then I'll blow his head off.
KB: Go right ahead. But your buddy's neck will still be snapped.
BG #2 does not want to take the chance. A moment later, however, Bad CHICK bumrushes KB, hits him with a taser, and utterly incapacitates him.
Wait. He just threatened to snap the neck of a man who's bigger than he is? But he couldn't haul off and kick this teeny-tiny girl in the face the second she made a move? This big, bad FBI agent?
Like I said: It defies belief.
At the end of the episode the bad guys roar off in a car. KB has a gun in hand. Why he makes no attempt to at least blow out a tire, I have no idea. He just lies there looking...stupid.
I miss Downton Abbey.
And nothing takes more courage than allowing total strangers to read the stories you've worked so hard to create. Kudos to those of you who've generously allowed me to post these wonderful teasers twice a week.
UNTITLED
by
another_wipTarin bounded around before them, walking backward to stay ahead. “You said your Death Bringer had no part of Aramyr. His allegiance was to you alone.” His voice rose, cracking with the flood of emotion flushing his ruddy face like fire. “You swore—“
“I trust him with my life.”
“And with ours! Yet all we know is that he was the Ythbhäs of Aramyr. The blood of our kin is on his hands. Now you say he remains linked to Aramyr?” Tarin ceased his awkward retreat. “Perhaps we should have listened more closely to Berik. He said we could not trust that treacherous—“
Aedin took a swift step forward, nose to nose with the shorter man, eyes blazing. “You will not question Khyr’s honor. Not in my presence.” He glared, unblinking, until Tarin lowered his head and shuffled aside. Aedin pushed brusquely past. “When we reach Toraine, you should remain there. Return north to your people. You have no place in this journey. Much has been entrusted to Khyr, and your doubt could cost us all our lives.”
Lyndsii’s stomach knotted and she stepped around Tarin, refusing to acknowledge his baleful stare. Her hands clenched into tight balls, struggling against the desire to slap him.
What the hell.
Wheeling, her palm connected with the side of his face with a resounding 'crack' that jerked the group around in surprise. Mouth agape with shock as much as pain, Tarin rubbed at the rising welts on his cheek, and made a grab for her. “Y’ve no call striking an honest man—"
Her hand found her sword as she whipped around to meet him, the silver blade flashing upward to meet his throat. She glared into his startled face and he spread his hands wide in surrender as he stepped back. "Not one word," Lyndsii grated between clenched teeth, sheathed her sword, and strode past the group.
Back turned to their wide-eyed stares, she rubbed her throbbing hand. Served him right.
~~~
DREAMWALKER
by
fandoriaIt’s strange how you can go from thinking the world is ending to realizing that, nope, it’s still going. And not only that, but the thing you thought had shattered your life actually feels normal now. You got used to it. Even if you never thought you would. Even if you never wanted to.
“Rachel? Are you all right? You seem sad.”
Rider’s voice, uncertain and hesitant, pulled me from my thoughts which were quickly turning to Mom.
“I’m fine,” I started to lie, but then shook my head. I wasn’t fine. And even though for the most part, I was used to it, days like today made it painfully clear that life without Mom wasn’t completely normal. I still needed someone to talk to. Why not take a chance with Rider?
He sat very still, as if waiting for me to open up to him. As if he’d wait forever if he had to.
~~~
THE LAST ROSE
by
fuguemacabre“Roesia!”
Rose jumped at the sharpness of Leal’s voice. “Sorry. Were you speaking to me?”
“Come along.” Leal reached out taking her hand in his. “I only have a few minutes before I have to be back at work.” He waited as she picked up the few pieces of clothing she’d managed to tie into a shawl before leaving home then led her down the alley onto the busy street. “Mademoiselle Renee is a nice woman. The room is affordable, one meal a day, breakfast, and she’ll wait until you have your first pay for the rent. You’ll also get a meal at the end of your shift.” He looked her over from head to foot. “You’ll need to take a bath before coming to work. Wash your hair, too.”
With a tug of her hand out of his, she stopped in the middle of the street and placed her fists on her hips. “I don’t need a snotty nosed boy to tell me to bathe. Do not judge me, Leal. You don’t know me.”
Leal leaned back and laughed, his mouth wide with mirth. “I know you sleep in the alley. I know you smell.” His smile waned. “And I know something has happened at home that you had to leave. I see the sadness in your eyes, a longing for that home. Now, come along. I have to get back to work.”
She followed behind him refusing his hand when he offered it. “I will take your job at the cafe' but it is not what I came here for. I wish to destroy the Germans.”
He turned to look at her again. “How old are you Roesia? What has made you so bitter?”
“Everyone calls me Rose. I’m fourteen.” She thought better of answering his second question.
Leal’s face, a mask of indecision, set Rose’s nerves on fire. Who is this boy and what is he thinking? Her feet itched to run and find a place to hide. How did she know if this gangly, wild haired creature wasn’t a spy for the Germans?
“You say you want to help with the war effort? What do you plan to do, shoot every German you see?” He didn’t smile nor did he flinch in his observance of her. “Don’t worry, Rose. I am not a German sympathizer. I am French through and through. I love my country.” He glanced around him for a moment and pointed at a nearly tavern. “When you get off tonight, come here. I’ll be waiting for you. The Germans are just thirty miles north of here at the River Marne. It won’t be long before they take our beautiful city. We must be ready to act.”
She nodded. Adrenalin flooded her veins and her heart raced frantically. “I’m ready. I can shoot a gun, my papa taught me.”
Leal's smile set Rose's nerves on fire. “I don’t think you understand, little bit. It is not a gun you will use to bring down those bastards. Now come along.”
~~~
HER NAME IS ANNE
by
melissawyattArthur grasped the earl’s hand a little too energetically, pulling him so that he stumbled and fell against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur held him upright, looking from the earl to Anne and back to the earl’s open shirt front under his coat.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, frowning. “Everything all right, Annie?”
“Does it look all right?” she snapped, but at a frantic look from the earl, shook her head. “Been a accident is all.”
Arthur stared again at the earl’s exposed chest.
“Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Don’t be stupid!”
“Yes, just an accident.” The earl let go of Arthur and steadied himself on the doorframe. “Miss Anne was kind enough to help me.”
“Miss Anne?” Arthur wiggled his eyebrows at her. “He gets to call you Miss Anne?”
“Shut up, Artie and go and hail a cab for his lordship.”
Both boys goggled at her.
“His lordship?”
“He’s the Earl of Dorincourt and he needs a cab. Now go and get one!” She turned Arthur around and with both hands on his back, gave him a shove.
But Arthur spun back around.
“Look, Miss Anne, first of all, I think power has gone to your head. You’re getting awfully bossy. Second of all, we don’t need a cab. I have the gig tied up out front.”
Anne turned to the earl, who was looking a bit blue.
“That all right with you?” she asked. “Gigs jounces so.”
“I shall transport his lordship as a babe in arms,” Arthur said. “The idea of me jouncing anyone.”
“Take this, then.” She handed Arthur the sack of the earl’s belongings and with a hand under the earl’s elbow, led him through the shop.
“How did you know?” the earl murmured.
“Know what?”
“Who I am.”
She felt her face grow warm again.
“Found them little cards in your pocket. Got your name on them, don’t they?”
“Oh.” A little silence. “Did you—was there—did you find anything else?”
“No. Well, a flower. It was pretty well crushed, though. I might ha’dropped it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Out front of the shop, in the gray light of early morning, the sturdy brown mare that had been Arthur’s birthday present stood hitched to his father’s old gig. Anne knew how proud he had been to have it, but now as he helped hoist the earl onto the seat, he apologized.
“Sorry it’s not what you’re used to. Watch, there’s a bit of a hole there in the footboard. Sorry.”
~~~
PRAIRIE ELEPHANT
by Neva F.
A man struggled with the plow in his attempt to keep the furrows straight. Crows burst from the woods, sounding a raucous alarm. Cautious, he studied the billowing steel-grey clouds gathered over the distant, rolling hills. “It’ll be the third time this week,” he muttered to the disinterested mule. “I’ll never get the seed in with all this rain.”
The crows, peppered across the sky, shrieked another warning. "Whoa, there…"
The animal gratefully stopped.
Patrick removed the dirt-stiffened lines from around his neck and draped them over the plow’s darkened, sweat-worn handles. Scanning the dense forest beyond the corduroyed field, raw fear surged down his spine. The emerging storm that threatened on the eastern horizon had nothing to do with the weather.
Turning toward his wife, he barely had time to shout, “Abigail, run!”
Helpless to reach her, Patrick watched Abby gather their two small children and dart for the protection of the root cellar. When she disappeared from sight, he spun to confront the band of marauders close on his heels. He saw the butt end of a rifle, and then a direct blow slammed against his forehead, jolting him off his feet. Sprawled on his hands and knees in the thick mud, the world swayed and darkened as he fought to remain conscious.
Abigail stepped out from behind the house. Trembling, she raised the barrel of the old shotgun and aimed. For a brief moment, Patrick’s bloodied, terrified gaze met hers and he shook his head. She hesitated for a brief moment and the rifle left her hands with a violent jerk. Dragged by her loosened hair to the waiting mob, in defiance, she glared into the gang leader’s face.
Paunchy and balding, he smiled his approval. “Come here like a nice little girl, and we’ll forgit where ya hid them babies.”
For the next two hours, she never uttered a sound, yet the screaming nightmares that followed would last her a lifetime.
~~~
DREAMSTERS
by
swhistedMs. Coleman tells us to open our books to chapter three and picks up where she left off on Friday, with the birth of the U.S. government. I start jotting down the notes she makes on the chalkboard and whisper to Harper, “I can make you a copy of my notes from last week if you’d like.”
She doesn’t have to say anything for me to know she could care less about taking notes based on her facial expression alone. As soon as Ms. Coleman’s back is turned to us, Harper uses her stack of books as a pillow and closes her eyes.
I know how strict Ms. Coleman can be about sleeping in her class. One time last year, she slammed a textbook on Caleb Murphy’s desk, inches from him face, to wake him up. It made the whole class jump.
I can’t help but admire a napping Harper, though. She’s much less angsty this way, almost approachable even. But when Ms. Coleman is about to turn back around, I poke her in the arm with my pen. One eye peaks open angrily and snaps shut just as quickly.
I jab her again, this time mouthing, “You’re going to get in trouble.”
She mouths back, “Do I look like I care?”
No, but I do, I think. What’s she so tired for anyway?
“Milo. Harper. Care to share your conversation with the class?” Ms. Coleman scolds.
Harper has enough sense to sit up –thank God– and play it cool.
“I was just offering to make a copy of the notes from last week,” I say. It’s not a complete lie. And luckily, it satisfies Ms. Coleman enough that she turns back towards the board.
I pull out a spare notebook and pen and slide it across the desk to Harper. She gives me a questionable look and puts her head back down. Frustrated with her, I grab her wrist and lay it on the notebook so it can at least look like she’s taking notes.
She quietly freaks out over me touching her, but I disregard her reaction and sternly mouth, “At least pretend!”
I’ve really pissed her off now; her eyes nearly burn holes in mine. I break our stare and get back to taking notes. Out of the corner of my eye I see her lay her head back down, but at least this time she keeps her hand at the ready on the notepad. I smirk to myself, feeling slightly victorious.
Anytime Ms. Coleman turns around again, I nudge Harper’s foot with mine to wake her. When that doesn’t work, I poke her with my pen again. She doesn’t take actual notes when she comes to, just scribbles on the paper, but at least she plays along enough to not draw negative attention to herself again.
I’m not even sure why I’m going out of my way to protect her. I guess it’s just because I feel some sort of duty to Mrs. Womack. I know it’s what she’d want me to do.
~~~
THE WORLD THROUGH DEXTER'S EYES
The Storm
by Vickie M.
It was so dry and humid. Actually hot. I could see the steam rising from the concrete. It hurt my feet, not to mention I was not myself that day or hadn't been for the last week; but no one noticed. Mom didn't leave me outside for long. She never did, if there was any bit of danger, like a mean sun. Mom took care of me better than Mother Dog. And my dad seemed to love me more everyday. (Even if I chewed the TV wires again.) Dad said it was unusual to have it so windy, without any rain. It was like a dust storm. Inside, everyone was watching cable, talking about the pending Hurricane Ike, soon to hit Texas. It would not touch us, but we were feeling a bit of it, due to the unusual weather we were experiencing. Mom said we were always lucky, because we lived in God's country, not to ever take advantage of that thought but remain humble, because nobody really knows when tragedy will befall them next.
I had this pain for about a week. I would throw up my food, and Mom kept an eye on me, but Dad, true to his nature, said it was just puppy stuff as we eat everything. Yes, all the then 90 pounds of me, and I was still considered a pup. But that day, the pain was worse. I couldn't even lift my leg. And when I did my business, for as hard as I tried, not too much came out of me. Sometimes the urine would just leak out of me. I lived with this pain for it seemed forever, so what did that mean? It was brewing, just like the weather, I guess, getting hotter and hotter. Megan noticed me then, trying to squat in the house. She saw the little puddles. I saw her tell Mom. I was in a daze. No, actually I was delirious.
On the couch, hurting so much, all eyes peeled to the screen, suddenly the wind must have kicked up, as the power went out, and I went out next, and it was the end.
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