I have four tattoos and sixteen piercings. I like black nail polish, but also calypso blue and hot pink. I'm short and round and I wear glasses. My hair never makes it much further than my shoulders before I chop it off and I've been at least six different hair colors in the last two months. In high school I was a bookworm, but I didn't go to college. I was an administrative assistant to someone important at a hospital, but I quit the high-paying gig because it made me crazy. I have an unnatural obsession with scarves, leather-bound journals, and fedoras. I believe firmly in glitter and hair bows; preferably when put together. I walk like an old woman because of a chronic pain problem from a nasty horseback riding incident. But I still ride.
Most importantly, I am a writer. And no matter how often the other things change, that fact never does. I haven't written in months. I haven't done any serious writing in longer than that. And if you asked me when I was going to get the ten novels hiding on my hard drive into daylight, I honestly couldn't tell you. To me, it doesn't matter. But I'm still a writer.
Today is a day people are identified. Married, divorced, single, dating, committed, widowed, or some combination of these. Their identities are put into boxes and wrapped with bows, or shoved into vases, or pulled from a section of the greeting card aisle. They are crammed into heart-shaped containers of chocolate or printed on thousands of grocery store valentines. And people are okay with this because it only happens one day a year. But if you asked any of the thousands of people that smiled when they opened their mass-personalized gift next week what they were, the answer wouldn't be so simple. Some people might even get offended.
Today I'm a writer. I'm also single. Tomorrow I will still be a writer. And probably single. I don't hate Valentine's Day. I think that if you have someone you love, you should express that. I'm also not bitter that I don't have anyone to romantically express my love to. It's just another day for me. And I'm pretty sure that even if I did have someone, it would be just another day. Because when you love someone, you should express it every day.
But I'm just a writer. What do I know?
-Liz
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Little Bit of Love
I'm pretty sure that if I met someone who would build me a tree house so wonderful I'd want to live in it, I'd marry them. Seriously. Building someone a tree house is like an epic expression of love. It takes time and money and possibly broken fingers. And for someone to put that kind of effort into a project for a twenty-two year old, well, it would be pretty damn awesome. A box of chocolate just can't compare. And I'd take a tree house over a diamond engagement ring any day. What better way to prove you can provide for someone than to build them a house?
I was thinking about my characters and they're relationships in the shower today. I've really put them through a lot. People who could never love before, learn to trust, and people who finally have it all suddenly die. Ridiculous. But if you think about it, real life relationships are kind of ridiculous. I don't know of anyone that's been on more than four dates and not had at least one horror story. People who have been married for decades should be sainted. So, I really shouldn't feel bad when I make someone wait twenty years for the love of their life, right?
At the same time, I sort of feel like I'm writing a Greek tragedy. Sometimes I get to the point that if one more thing goes wrong, I might as well go all out and kill everyone Romeo and Juliet style. I don't mean I'm going Oedipus or anything, but there certainly is a lot of drama.
I guess there's no real way to know if you're doing it right. At least, that's the impression I get. You think it, you write it, and pray to whatever higher being you recognize that you don't have to offer it up as a sacrificial lamb later on. Sometimes it works. And sometimes the cops pick you up for talking to the toothpaste in Walmart.
Everything in life has risks, eh?
-Liz
I was thinking about my characters and they're relationships in the shower today. I've really put them through a lot. People who could never love before, learn to trust, and people who finally have it all suddenly die. Ridiculous. But if you think about it, real life relationships are kind of ridiculous. I don't know of anyone that's been on more than four dates and not had at least one horror story. People who have been married for decades should be sainted. So, I really shouldn't feel bad when I make someone wait twenty years for the love of their life, right?
At the same time, I sort of feel like I'm writing a Greek tragedy. Sometimes I get to the point that if one more thing goes wrong, I might as well go all out and kill everyone Romeo and Juliet style. I don't mean I'm going Oedipus or anything, but there certainly is a lot of drama.
I guess there's no real way to know if you're doing it right. At least, that's the impression I get. You think it, you write it, and pray to whatever higher being you recognize that you don't have to offer it up as a sacrificial lamb later on. Sometimes it works. And sometimes the cops pick you up for talking to the toothpaste in Walmart.
Everything in life has risks, eh?
-Liz
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Hurts So Good
Writing is for masochists. Normally, my mind would go straight to sadist instead, especially given the horrible, horrible things I've done to my characters in the last decade, but no. Masochists. And why are writers masochists? Because we're crazy enough to want to do this for a living.
Writing is evil. Rewrites are inhumane. And editing, oh editing. There's a special place in hell for editing. And an even darker place for professional editors. We could bathe a nation in the blood, sweat, and tears cast forth from editing. You know, except for the fact that it would be really disgusting. And an excellent way to torture one's characters.
I'm sort of writing, by sort of editing. I'm hoping that eventually I'll be really writing and then really editing. But for the moment, I'm still set apart from the whole thing. I haven't hit my stride. I'm not feeling that cannibalistic craze that hits somewhere between your first great paragraph and three chapters without stopping. It's a feeling that makes you want to devour your own work, regurgitate it, share it with the world, and devour it again. Like cows. Although, I'm pretty sure cows don't think of cud that way.
Right now, I'm really loving my work. I look at paragraphs or lines of dialogue and laugh. It's the best thing I've written in years. I want everyone else to read it. I fall asleep plotting future chapters in my head. But I'm not quite to the point of writing it down for real. Soon, though.
Then I'll be fierce.
Like the cows.
-Liz
Writing is evil. Rewrites are inhumane. And editing, oh editing. There's a special place in hell for editing. And an even darker place for professional editors. We could bathe a nation in the blood, sweat, and tears cast forth from editing. You know, except for the fact that it would be really disgusting. And an excellent way to torture one's characters.
I'm sort of writing, by sort of editing. I'm hoping that eventually I'll be really writing and then really editing. But for the moment, I'm still set apart from the whole thing. I haven't hit my stride. I'm not feeling that cannibalistic craze that hits somewhere between your first great paragraph and three chapters without stopping. It's a feeling that makes you want to devour your own work, regurgitate it, share it with the world, and devour it again. Like cows. Although, I'm pretty sure cows don't think of cud that way.
Right now, I'm really loving my work. I look at paragraphs or lines of dialogue and laugh. It's the best thing I've written in years. I want everyone else to read it. I fall asleep plotting future chapters in my head. But I'm not quite to the point of writing it down for real. Soon, though.
Then I'll be fierce.
Like the cows.
-Liz
Friday, December 30, 2011
That Man's Got My Gun!
I need a good kick in the pants. Well, maybe not an actual kick in the pants, because that could lead to damage, and for the most part, I like my pants. No, I need a figurative kick in the pants. And I need it in several areas of my life.
So, I quit my job. You know, the one that gave me money for the hours I thought about the novels I wasn't writing. Now that I'm home with hours to spare, I'm not writing. Do I have a good excuse?
No.
Okay, well, I was just in a car accident (several weeks ago) and I got sick (a couple of weeks ago) and it turned into bronchitis (last week), but up until this point, coughing hasn't made me incapable of using my fingers. I'm just being lazy. Or difficult. Or difficult in a lazy fashion. I don't know. Whichever way you look at it, I'm not writing and I should be.
What gives?
It's not that I can't write. I just don't want to. I can sit here and make myself write, but it doesn't end well. You could argue that anything is better than nothing, but I have high standards. I can't write crap. I won't stand for it. And while people have told me that what I think is "crap" is actually better than some final drafts, to me, it's crap. And I just can't have that.
I also want to go back to Colorado. But now that I don't have a job, I'm afraid that if I go, I won't come back. That's a little awkward. I mean, I came back once because I had a job and stuff waiting for me here. But now I don't. And my family has told me multiple times that if Colorado will make me happy, go to Colorado. So, why the hell am I not going?
I have no idea.
And I don't want to write.
Ugh.
-Liz
So, I quit my job. You know, the one that gave me money for the hours I thought about the novels I wasn't writing. Now that I'm home with hours to spare, I'm not writing. Do I have a good excuse?
No.
Okay, well, I was just in a car accident (several weeks ago) and I got sick (a couple of weeks ago) and it turned into bronchitis (last week), but up until this point, coughing hasn't made me incapable of using my fingers. I'm just being lazy. Or difficult. Or difficult in a lazy fashion. I don't know. Whichever way you look at it, I'm not writing and I should be.
What gives?
It's not that I can't write. I just don't want to. I can sit here and make myself write, but it doesn't end well. You could argue that anything is better than nothing, but I have high standards. I can't write crap. I won't stand for it. And while people have told me that what I think is "crap" is actually better than some final drafts, to me, it's crap. And I just can't have that.
I also want to go back to Colorado. But now that I don't have a job, I'm afraid that if I go, I won't come back. That's a little awkward. I mean, I came back once because I had a job and stuff waiting for me here. But now I don't. And my family has told me multiple times that if Colorado will make me happy, go to Colorado. So, why the hell am I not going?
I have no idea.
And I don't want to write.
Ugh.
-Liz
Monday, December 12, 2011
Journey to a Standstill
So, I have decided that I have no idea what I’m doing. Not that I decided to get to this point, though, I suppose in a sense, I have. In four days I will be voluntarily unemployed, living at home with my parents for an undetermined amount of time, without a car. And as pathetic as that all sounds, it might be the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
In the last two months, I have taken steps to gain control of my life. And it’s not that someone else was in the driver’s seat. I was. I just wasn’t in my right mind. And when you’re not in your right mind, you do stupid things. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. Some people self-injure or stop eating or eat too much. I’ve done most of these things (minus the drugs- as my life is a little too trippy on its own) and none of it has gotten me any closer to that inner peace people talk about. They’re shortcuts through the forest that get you stuck in a swamp. And once you’re stuck, it takes a hell of a lot of effort to get yourself out again.
At some point in the last two months, I realized I was losing myself; losing myself to depression, to stress, to illness. I didn’t want to write. And even when I did want to write, I didn’t have the energy. Writing has gotten me through a lot of bad things in my life. It got me through an abusive childhood and abusive boyfriends. It got me through back-stabbing friends and cheaters. It even got me through a particularly dark time after my sophomore year of high school when I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house. So, when I can’t write, there’s something really wrong. And when I stop caring I can’t write; something needs to be done.
Going to Colorado was one of the best things I’ve ever done. It was a decision that put me first, even though I knew what it would cost me. And it didn’t fix everything. I came back home and things were still the same. I went back to work and it still depressed and stressed me. It didn’t take long for me to settle back in to the familiar monotony. But just when it looked like things were going to be the same as they were before, I got in a car accident. It was a jarring experience, in more than one way.
Physical pain and an inability to do much about it really gives you a different perspective. Suddenly you’re staring into the eyes of a cold hard truth: no one is going to take care of you, so you might as well take care of yourself. And it didn’t hit me like that Chrysler Town and Country. My family was actually very accommodating. Helpful, even. But when I was forced to go back to work after just one day at home in bed because I didn’t have the PTO to stay home because I’d just returned from medical leave, the reality of the situation started to sink in. And when I got pulled into a meeting and threatened with corrective action because of something I had done while on the medication prescribed to me so I could actually be at work, it hit me. I don’t need this. I need food, I need water, I need air, but I don’t need this. Not when this is killing me. And it was. Slowly.
So, I handed in my resignation. I don’t have another job. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know when I’ll be able to drive my car again. But you know what? I’m writing. And to me, that makes all the difference.
-Liz
In the last two months, I have taken steps to gain control of my life. And it’s not that someone else was in the driver’s seat. I was. I just wasn’t in my right mind. And when you’re not in your right mind, you do stupid things. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. Some people self-injure or stop eating or eat too much. I’ve done most of these things (minus the drugs- as my life is a little too trippy on its own) and none of it has gotten me any closer to that inner peace people talk about. They’re shortcuts through the forest that get you stuck in a swamp. And once you’re stuck, it takes a hell of a lot of effort to get yourself out again.
At some point in the last two months, I realized I was losing myself; losing myself to depression, to stress, to illness. I didn’t want to write. And even when I did want to write, I didn’t have the energy. Writing has gotten me through a lot of bad things in my life. It got me through an abusive childhood and abusive boyfriends. It got me through back-stabbing friends and cheaters. It even got me through a particularly dark time after my sophomore year of high school when I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house. So, when I can’t write, there’s something really wrong. And when I stop caring I can’t write; something needs to be done.
Going to Colorado was one of the best things I’ve ever done. It was a decision that put me first, even though I knew what it would cost me. And it didn’t fix everything. I came back home and things were still the same. I went back to work and it still depressed and stressed me. It didn’t take long for me to settle back in to the familiar monotony. But just when it looked like things were going to be the same as they were before, I got in a car accident. It was a jarring experience, in more than one way.
Physical pain and an inability to do much about it really gives you a different perspective. Suddenly you’re staring into the eyes of a cold hard truth: no one is going to take care of you, so you might as well take care of yourself. And it didn’t hit me like that Chrysler Town and Country. My family was actually very accommodating. Helpful, even. But when I was forced to go back to work after just one day at home in bed because I didn’t have the PTO to stay home because I’d just returned from medical leave, the reality of the situation started to sink in. And when I got pulled into a meeting and threatened with corrective action because of something I had done while on the medication prescribed to me so I could actually be at work, it hit me. I don’t need this. I need food, I need water, I need air, but I don’t need this. Not when this is killing me. And it was. Slowly.
So, I handed in my resignation. I don’t have another job. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know when I’ll be able to drive my car again. But you know what? I’m writing. And to me, that makes all the difference.
-Liz
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Crickets Dig the Friction
So, if any of you have seen Jiminy Cricket around, please send him my way. I need to find a star and dial up the Blue Fairy pronto.
My NaNo project is in critical condition. I have accepted that there is NO way I'm going to make 50k by the end of the month, but now I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to get to 25k. This doesn't depress me nearly as much as I thought it would. I guess the fact that it doesn't depress me, depresses me more. Not that that's dysfunctional or anything.
Truthfully, I haven't been putting a whole lot of effort into it. I know I'm capable of cranking out 2k a day, I just don't. Most days I have good excuses. The rest of the time I wonder if I'm fooling myself about writing as a profession. I keep thinking that I have more time. I'm only 22. There's no rush. I have years to try and get my books published. But I won't always be 22. And the years will probably sneak up on me (much like all of my excuses for not writing) and before I know it, I'll be middle aged and sitting on a pile of unread manuscripts. I can't let that happen.
It probably doesn't help that I've had a lot of excitement (and I don't mean the good kind) this year. Maybe once I figure out where I'm living and working and whether or not my body is falling apart, I'll have more energy to write.
In the meantime, there's always Netflix ;)
-Liz
My NaNo project is in critical condition. I have accepted that there is NO way I'm going to make 50k by the end of the month, but now I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to get to 25k. This doesn't depress me nearly as much as I thought it would. I guess the fact that it doesn't depress me, depresses me more. Not that that's dysfunctional or anything.
Truthfully, I haven't been putting a whole lot of effort into it. I know I'm capable of cranking out 2k a day, I just don't. Most days I have good excuses. The rest of the time I wonder if I'm fooling myself about writing as a profession. I keep thinking that I have more time. I'm only 22. There's no rush. I have years to try and get my books published. But I won't always be 22. And the years will probably sneak up on me (much like all of my excuses for not writing) and before I know it, I'll be middle aged and sitting on a pile of unread manuscripts. I can't let that happen.
It probably doesn't help that I've had a lot of excitement (and I don't mean the good kind) this year. Maybe once I figure out where I'm living and working and whether or not my body is falling apart, I'll have more energy to write.
In the meantime, there's always Netflix ;)
-Liz
Monday, November 14, 2011
Click Your Heels
I clicked my heels and what would you know? It made me trip on the moving sidewalk at the airport. Has anyone ever realized how fast those things go? You just start walking along and before you know it, you're at the end and threatening to kiss the carpet. I must master those in my next life. Or possibly this one, once I've gotten rid of the bruises.
I am home! I wanted to come home because I missed my kitties (you know, and the family, sort of) but apparently they have moved on. They are now sleeping with my mother. Mutiny, I say! I go away for three weeks....
Okay, well, I did go away for three weeks. And they are babies (six months old) so I suppose I can't blame them for seeking a little motherly love. But come on. If you're gonna go to someone for a snuggle, don't go to the mother. Mothers poke injuries to see if they've stopped bleeding before they slap a band-aid on it and tell you to stop crying. Mothers aren't for cuddling. At least, mine never was.
I'm not sure what I was hoping for when I came home. Maybe a warm welcome. Instead I got a shrug of indifference and everyone went about their business. Then again, their business was sleep, and it's sort of nearing 2am.
Damn. That's two arguments I've talked myself out of.
Anyway, I'm back in Cleveland and I miss Colorado already. If any of you are looking for a fantastic place to vacation (or hide from reality like I did) I HIGHLY recommend Sundance Trail Guest Ranch in Red Feather Lakes, Colorado. Here is their website. They are all things wonderful. I mean, they put up with me for almost three weeks, so that's about as saintly as you can get without ascending to another plane of existence.
I am now going to try and remember what time on the eastern coast feels like.
Night all!
-Liz
I am home! I wanted to come home because I missed my kitties (you know, and the family, sort of) but apparently they have moved on. They are now sleeping with my mother. Mutiny, I say! I go away for three weeks....
Okay, well, I did go away for three weeks. And they are babies (six months old) so I suppose I can't blame them for seeking a little motherly love. But come on. If you're gonna go to someone for a snuggle, don't go to the mother. Mothers poke injuries to see if they've stopped bleeding before they slap a band-aid on it and tell you to stop crying. Mothers aren't for cuddling. At least, mine never was.
I'm not sure what I was hoping for when I came home. Maybe a warm welcome. Instead I got a shrug of indifference and everyone went about their business. Then again, their business was sleep, and it's sort of nearing 2am.
Damn. That's two arguments I've talked myself out of.
Anyway, I'm back in Cleveland and I miss Colorado already. If any of you are looking for a fantastic place to vacation (or hide from reality like I did) I HIGHLY recommend Sundance Trail Guest Ranch in Red Feather Lakes, Colorado. Here is their website. They are all things wonderful. I mean, they put up with me for almost three weeks, so that's about as saintly as you can get without ascending to another plane of existence.
I am now going to try and remember what time on the eastern coast feels like.
Night all!
-Liz
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