Memories of Walmart

After graduating at eighteen years of age, I secured a summer position at my local Wal-Mart back in the fabric and crafts section. The day I started, my supervisor led me around all the isles, showing me everything that I'd have to obsessively "zone" for the rest of my summer: threads, paints, fake flowers, potpourri, glass drops, stitch witch, hodge podge, floral foam--you name it, I zoned it.

Funny enough, the department next to mine was sporting goods, which basically meant: killing center. Back in the day, Wal-Mart had actual guns and knives and almost any old joe and his kid could go back there and by every weapon known to man, then waltz through fabrics and look at some camouflage--on sale for $ 1.99 a yard. It was my job to take the huge spool of fabric, lay it across the table and cut out sections for patrons. A boring job, and yet . . . it gave me some sort of freedom being back there in the spine of old Wally World. With my long goth black hair and all black outfits, sans socks, I ruled the craft coven of Olathe, Ks. You wanted something crafty- you had to answer to me. Well, I probably would have sputtered something about the Beatles and Bob Dylan, if asked. Or how my guitar needed new strings. Or how Brian--the stock boy--looked just like Paul McCartney--and I was going to give him a love note that night after work. Sigh. That one didn't work out. Neither did Wal-Mart.

Retail and love don't mix, however, life and retail are good friends. I learned a lot back there in craps and frantics--as I loved to call it. I learned that people are strange and life is funny. There's a character in all of is, and even the most mundane things can bring out some sort of inspiration. All of life, like a simple cell of yeast, can feed on the meager surroundings of a scrappy local Wal-Mart; grow, form, die, and then come back to regenerate. A lonely teen-ager singing Lennon lyrics in her head can be so much more than the girl handing you your fabric scraps. The story she holds, meeting the story you possess yourself, are much more than just . . . retail.

Distance Between Us

I was thinking how we are all on different paths, and on each path, a different measure of distance. Some of us have travelled far, and others are just beginning. The point is, we are all on a journey toward some sort of goal. That's why we can't really judge each other. How can you judge someone when you don't know where they have been or where they are going? All you can do is respect the journey.

Feeling lost

After last week, and all its stress, I seem to be having trouble concentrating on anything. I hate my writing, I haven't the lung power to go bolt out a song, really. I could go paint, but can't get up the mojo to do so. I just seem lost, really. I know it will all come back to me, but for now it's all up in the air. This is when a person has to find their mentor and get re-inspired.

Have you ever seen that movie CARNIVAL OF SOULS, where the main character goes through episodes where she feels invisible to the rest of the world? She speaks and no one hears her? She walks, and all she can hear is the sound of her own footsteps? That's me. I mean, I've always felt like that, but I really feel like that tonight.

You know what I need? Georgy Girl. One of my other favorite movie characters. I love that film so much, because she is me. I'm Georgy. When I was fourteen--alone on a typical blue Saturday night--that movie came on and really changed me. Georgy was carefree, yet heavy with life's problems: freak hair, tall, goofy, talked strange, wanted love but wouldn't take it unless it was real, loved freedom and youth and creativity. I just loved the way she took everything and made it special in her own way. Alan Bates was hot and insanely insane. It moved me that he saw something in her that everyone else brushed aside. She was gorgeous, she was funny, she was spirited, and she had a real soul.

Anyway, gotta go find that movie. "It takes a whole lotta woman . . ."

H1N1 GOT ME

What more is there to say? I just spent a week of hell. Heat, over and over the heat. Then the fatigue and body aches, restlessness, chills, fear, and coughing. I was mostly worried about my children--I mean, that's my main concern and always will be--but on Thursday, that's when it turned on me and brought me to my knees. The day before I thought I was all done with the flu and could now concentrate on the kids without distraction, but then something went wrong. My chest was filling up and when I coughed it was deep, and painful. Then I coughed some more. My throat began to ache and I felt as if I lived under a world of goo. I had this feeling of dread running through me on a constant loop. By dinner time I was thinking some pretty serious stuff: swine flu, coughing . . . death. I would never think of such desperate things, but my lungs were doing things they have never done before. To put it plainly, I could tell that my body was at the beginning of losing the fight, and I had to do something.

But here's the deal with this virus, you can't just call your neighbor over and ask them to babysit, or your family, or anyone. It's highly contagious. I had to wait for my husband to come back from his day long Texas trip so that I could drive myself to the hospital and get checked out. He finally got home--I went to the ER. They said I had early pneumonia in the bottom of my lungs and gave me some very strong antibiotics, painkillers, an inhaler and a prescription for some very strong cough medicine. Then they sent me home. Relief. I wasn't going to die.

It was a strange sensation walking through the hospital waiting room so late at night with a mask on my face; I felt like a leper. Down the corridor I could hear a child screaming, she probably had pneumonia too, and much worse than mine. I had to stop and say a prayer.

When I drove home that night in the dark, cold October world, I thought a lot about life and how grateful I was to be going home to my children. The antibiotics have made me nauseous, but I don't care. I'm so happy to be alive and to have another chance at everything: writing, singing, art, love.

The Old Pepsi Car

My grandfather had this blue Pontiac from the sixties, a truly fabulous specimen that I would love to have now--if it was still running. It looked like this: http://www.vintagedreamcars.com/Copy%20of%201967%20Pontiac%20Green%20(49).JPG

I remember him coming over on Sundays to visit, mostly after the monster battle where Mom finally told Dad to get out. He'd come rumbling down Franklin Street, parking on the gravel road, standing there in his dark blue suit and tie with business hat perched on top of his bald head.

We were always at the window, ready to run out and greet him. With one signal, our bare feet ran out past the lawn and through a grassy ditch to meet him on the road above.

"Hey you kids. Want to see something? The car battery's been acting up and I have a trick to show you. Marshall, come over here. Stand back though!" Shaking hands lifted the front hood, revealing all the innards of his Pontiac. Grandpa reached into his suit and pulled out a bottle of Pepsi, using a pocket bottle opener to flip off the cap. Soda fizzled, then swam out of the glass opening to his weathered hands.

He pointed to the battery, and the gray crust which had begun to form. "Watch."

He lifted the bottle and let its dark liquid pour out onto the battery connectors. Within seconds, the crust began to foam up and break apart.

"Get me a stick!" Marshall ran to grab one from the apple tree in the front yard. Then we all watched Grandpa scrape away the muck, smiling at us through his black glasses. "Isn't that something?"

We all nodded in silence.

"Well . . . go get yourselves some soda out of the back seat. I'll go see your mom."

The three of us dove into the backseat to claim one bottle each, Marshall grabbing the first one as usual. Then we ran after the swinging screen door, happy and breathless under a wide Kansas sky.

I love you, David Hockney

I love the way you think, the way you express, and how you let nothing keep you from being an artist.

*Sigh*

Oh, do you guys want to see what this amazing man has done with his iphone? Here I am, the person who complains about having to type on the little keyboard on her ipod. Looks like those days are over.

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/23176

There's a picture of Hockney in an old Rolling Stone that I fell in love with. It was him holding a dachshund in such a loving, gentle manner. The composition, and sentiment of the photo is so sweet to me. I have to make a painting out of it sometime--just for me.

The article talked of his journey to success, and some health issues that he apparently has overcome. I went through my Picasso period, Thurber, Van Gogh, and now I'm sort of obsessed with Hockney's work. I guess it's me needing to learn and go somewhere it didn't know existed before. I'm a minimalist so I only dream of being able to paint or think like him.

Anyway, now I feel sad because there's so much I want to do and so little time to get it done.

Typo why must you beseech me?

After doing a full out edit last week-end that I thought had cleaned up all mistakes and or typos, I went back this week-end to find the little buggers had invaded again. It's like having rats in your manuscript. They hide, copulate, then settle in strange places that your thought were rodent free. It's starting to peeve me off.

So, I have advice for anyone who thinks their manuscript is typo free. Look again. Look up, look down, look to the left, the right, and all around. Look under, then hold it up against a light and look some more. Look while eating, look while sleeping. Look while waiting for the dryer to finish, look while you're on the toilet. Look, look, and then when you're done looking . . . look again.

Put your manuscript away for awhile, take a break. Then run back in the house, turn on the computer or grab the notebook and look some more. I'm looking right now.

Mock-up cover for The Soul Seekers

I had a little fun with photoshop just now and this is what I came up with. It's one of three ideas I have for the cover of the book.

Imagine #9

I had recently begun to envision driving off of every bridge my poor old Chevy found itself having to ramble over. Alice Cooper was blasting in my ears,

I´m eighteen
And I don´t know what I want
Eighteen
I just don´t know what I want
Eighteen
I gotta get away
Eighteen
I gotta get out of this place
I´ll go runnin´ in outer space
Oh yeah.

I didn't really want to die, but had failed in the ability to think of ways to get by. Nobody ever understood a thing I did or said. With my dyed black hair, long legs that never fit in their jeans, and mixed up dyslexic thought processes, I was definitely not your normal young woman. Considering myself a freak of nature, I began to isolate even more than usual, coming to the conclusion that death must be the only solution; the last avenue yet untraveled. I had always entertained the idea of just disappearing from the world, starting when I was a child and sat in a ditch for a whole afternoon and nobody came to find me. It was the same thing--nobody cared if I lived or died. My mother told me I was ugly, my father was long gone. I was coming close to another bridge and felt my fingers tighten over the steering wheel in anticipation. Then I heard a very warm sounding voice on the radio sing, "Imagine there's no heaven . . ."

My mind clicked open.

I knew that voice, but had always been told he was a bad person because of his weird and sometimes rebellious ways. "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." The words went straight through every negative thought I possessed and calmed down their urgency. Was he saying it was okay to be different? To dream, to be weird? All of a sudden, I felt myself breathe. The car passed over the bridge with me stuck in a sudden enrapture.

That was the beginning of the journey and the day I stopped dying. From then on I knew there was a spot in the world that belonged to me. A young woman was no longer alone.

THE SOUL SEEKERS continued

In my last post, I spoke about the main character from THE SOUL SEEKERS, eighteen year old Emma Shay. Now I'd like to introduce the secondary main character, someone who slightly comes off as an antagonist during the first quarter of the book, the ghost-man himself, William Bennett. Actually, his name has quite a metamorphosis, starting with Emma's own nickname for him, HANDSOME, then Billy Joe Bennett, as she hears the Soul Seekers call him. His real name is William Bennett; elegant and fitting, as he ends up being quite the noble character.

William is the young man who has roamed the small town of Springvail invisible to most of its citizens for over twenty years. The only people who can see him are the Soul Seekers, who aren't quite what you would call human. They stole half of his soul during a ceremony called the Rapture, locking it in a coin made of roughly helmed coppery metal. Lost since 1956, the coin has now resurfaced and is in the possession of--you guessed it--Emma Shay, aka new girl in town. She's the only normal human who can see or hear him, and that makes her his only ally in the world. If he didn't love her so much, he might take her up on her offers to help get his soul back. But he is strong-willed and very protective. He demands she hide the coin and leave town. Riiiiight. Emma has already lost someone she loves more than life itself, her father, and she is not going to go through any of that again.

William is a writer, a dreamer. He's romantic and fiercely protective. He can walk through walls, he can jump into moving cars, but he cannot accept Emma ever getting hurt in the process of him being saved. It's unthinkable. On the night of the lunar eclipse, he is ready to give up the rest of his soul so the ministry can be done with it and move their coven out of Springvail for good. What he did not count on was one young woman and her stubborn heart to enter the underground world of the Soul Seekers caves to just save him.

I can't wait for all of you to read this book. I wrote it for anyone that loves time travel, rock and roll, muscle cars, romance, small town freakaliscious times, and of course, girl power! If you are someone that grew up on the tail end of the 1970's, I think you will enjoy it immensely. If you are a young chap or chick who wants to be led back in time, you'll love it. THE SOUL SEEKERS is a story about all of us and any time; most of all, it relates something that is real. Though, you'll just have to read it to find out what that is.

THE SOUL SEEKERS are coming after you . . .

But it's okay, who needs a soul anyway?

Yes folks, I am going to speak of my first novel, the SOUL SEEKERS, a young adult thriller/paranormal/romance. It is very, oh so very crossover, which means it basically fits in every genre known to man, but that's what I wanted. I always knew I'd write about ghosts and mix it in with romance. I always knew I'd write about time travel and mix that in with romance. Mostly the plan was to write something that took a young girl from a place in her life which seemed inescapable--father's death, no future, no car, no friends, no college, strange town--and transform her through events that are targeted specifically for her. Let's face it, most young women aren't surrounded by ghoul men with hollow eyes, and beautiful ghost-guys who only you can see. The main character, Emma Shay, can either believe it all and let it transform her, or she can say FORGET IT and concentrate on leaving. She's too strong for that. She can handle the ghouls, and she may not know it at the onset, but she figures it out real fast. It doesn't hurt that one of her character flaws is being stubborn.

Besides her transformation, I flipping love the concept of a small town being a place of dirty business. Any normal visitor would drive through and say, "Oh, what a nice little place to live! Look at all the old fashioned houses and shops. Wouldn't it be nice to live here?" It would, if you like not having a soul. Mwahahahahahaha.

More on THE SOUL SEEKERS on my next post. Life is calling me in the form of a shower, two kids--one with a stinky diaper, and some laundry that needs to be put in the dryer.

Grace

My highest goal as a writer and human, is to have the one thing which I admire in other artists, and that is grace. No jealousy--there's room enough in the world for every idea and plot, or song, or melody. No bitterness--I want to learn, not shut down or put up walls. More than anything, I want to walk through any situation and know that I was present, and left a positive imprint so that whoever witnessed my passing may be inspired. It is in homage to every artist that ever drew me out of my sadness, or hopeless feelings of despair. I want to show them the proof of their passing in my life. I could never do that by hurting anyone, or being quick to the draw with my words or actions. The only way to show grace is to be kind and strong, and to perform at the highest level one can perform at. This is my true desire, beyond anything else, and the legacy that I hope to leave behind.