This week I was invited to participate in the How I Write blog hop. I hesitated briefly because what I have to work on far outweighs what I’d like to be working on, so I wasn’t sure which type of writing to discuss, but when a blogger asks you to hold her hand and come hop, you don’t say no. It’s like saying no to a slice of homemade cake. That would just be rude.
I was invited by Lisa Allen, who is also affectionately known as my Ginger Bestie. We met last year at the inaugural Listen To Your Mother show in Kansas City. We were thrown into a unique situation where moments after saying hello, we immediately bared our souls with other cast members during the first read-through of the show. I was struck by her eloquence and poise as she read her emotional piece. I have since come to admire her for being a single mother and phenom writer. This year she’s part of a production team bringing Listen To Your Mother back to KC for the second year. I can’t wait to see it – this time from the audience.
First Book Signing! Weee! *clap clap*
How I Write
What Am I Working On? Currently I’m a freelance writer contributing weekly to Diets In Review and Health Bubble. I also write dating profiles for a prominent matchmaking site (never a dull moment there.) And I’m always tackling miscellaneous one-and-done projects for editing, web content and marketing material.
I also have a super secret project on the horizon that I’m beyond excited about, but until I’ve signed the contract, I can’t reveal. When there’s a lawyer involved, you know it’s a big deal.
As a lifelong resident I’ve played on your prairie land, attended your schools, hidden from your tornadoes and always maintained a sense of pride about hailing from the boxiest state on the map. Over the years, I’ve cringed when the media called you, “backward,” “slow” “unhealthy” and that time you were named the worst city to live in for allergy sufferers. *reaches for another Kleenex* Even though I think that one is. . . *sniff*. . . totally true.
I’ve endured countless jokes about the Wizard of Oz connection and when I’ve traveled beyond these flat plains, I’ve laughed politely when people in other states reminded me, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, are ya?” Ahhh, that never gets old. *whisper* It totally does. Hell, I’ve even paid tribute to and capitalized on Kansas’ kitsch by making it a central theme in my short story, “No Place Like Home,” as well as, my novelette, “Next Left.” *ahem* Shameless plug.
But now, Kansas, you and I have a problem. Lately your lawmakers have been drinking the crazy Koolaid and once again, the world is taking notice. Last night I saw this tweet from The Daily Show:
A few years ago, Dougie gave me a GPS unit as an anniversary gift. Be jealous, ladies. At the time, I accepted it with a mix of appreciation and bemusement. Ohhh, sure, I tend to get lost sometimes. Okay, a lot. Okay, I’ve actually gotten lost so many times that it’s become a running joke with my family. But an anniversary gift? Come on, man, where’s the romance?
Me with cute and practical, Dougie
The king of the practical gifts had struck again. Then he said, “So you can always find your way back home to me,” and I melted. Of course he was also probably thinking, “and cook for me, because I only know how to reheat leftovers” but still, the sentiment was there.
Countless times I’ve pressed the “Go Home” button simply because I had a full bladder and needed the most direct route to my bathroom. The GPS became my friend. I named her Jill. But now, I’m convinced Jill was simply trying to gain my trust – so she could KILL ME!
What is it about winter time that turns me in to a hopeless romantic?
It certainly isn’t the temperature. I detest it. When the first cold snap hits in mid-October I swear I won’t be warm again until May. Then I spend the rest of the season bundled up in layers of clothing and wear my electric blanket as a cape, moving from room to room with the little electrical cord dragging behind me.
Then there’s the cold and flu season. An entire season dedicated to coughing, sneezing and the dreaded snot-snuck. I’m woozy just thinking about it. Phlegm noises make me irritable and I tend to shout irrational things like, “Blow your nose or I will come use the baby snot-sucky-thingy on you, I don’t care if you are 46 years old.”
Yet here I am, ready to launch another romantic winter tale, Next Left.
If it seems I’ve neglected my personal blog lately it’s because I’ve been flitting around the interwebs lending my thoughts and miscellaneous ramblings to other sites instead. I’ve also been under deadline to finish my latest short story and, there’s that whole job-hunt thing going on, as well.
Over the past 48 hours, however, I’ve really had my hands full. . . of soap and antibacterial gel, that is. My poor Jakie picked up a flu bug from somewhere; I suspect the carrier monkeys from middle school and his atrocious habit of nail-biting. *shudder* I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice it to say, there was a situation *swirly hand motions* happening at both ends. While I immediately sprang in to action as nursemaid, housemaid and bland-food nazi, I also got to do something else, baby my “baby” again.