Saturday Favorites

I think I'll go see a friend play at a "pub" tonight. We usually call them bars in America, but once in a while you see the word "pub" which basically means bar with flair. It's still a bar.

Since today is Saturday, I will hook you up with some videos to make your life fantastically happy and carefree, like Snow White on acid.

I used to listen to a hilarious show called "The Bad Music Hour" and they always had at least one Shatner song to rock my world.

I loved this commercial when I was a kid. My favorite by far.

And for some reason it won't let me embed this one, but you have to see it. You'll want a Whopper afterwards, trust me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGj6jRGqT20

Have a great Saturday!

Finally Some Progress

Maybe because I released some serious stuff off my chest last night, I was able to sit down and work on the old WIP. For hours I wrote and edited. It was great. A firm believer of butt in chair, I had never abandoned my WIP in this last month of restlessness. But it was painful work and I'm very happy to see things going smooth again. The truth is, being a writer can be tough at times. It's not all just sitting in a chair thinking romantic thoughts. It's hard freaking work. But like anything else, when it's good, it's really really good and fun and romantic and exciting and, it's kind of like a drug, isn't it? I've never really had much patience for drugs, but writing, books, music . . . they all make me high. And so the crash is painful.

Listening to Keane again. Bedshaped. Love them.

Here's a sketch of RPatz for my Twilight friends. I really like him, you know. I like that he reads, and he seems very kind, shy, modest. And he's a musician too! After I saw Twilight last year, I was so enamored—like the rest of the world. Some of his facial expressions and speech remind me of John Lennon. Kind of a crazy picture I know; I was just doing a caricature, messy, not that great. But I think it captures his sort of long neck, poetic essence.

Have a beautiful day! Peace.

Thoughts For the End of the Week

Not sure if anyone saw the truth and lies from the creative blogger award. They were down at the bottom of my last post, which was . . . pretty long. Sorry! Ugh, I hate to have you see my truth though, so embarrassing.

Have you ever been in a bad relationship that you knew was wrong but you just kept going until something made you look at yourself and want to change? Have you ever used that relationship in your writing, art, etc?

Happy weekend to everyone!

I love Keane so much. Yesterday, while running errands, I sang every song from Hopes and Fears full blast with the windows open. I can't not sing when I hear them.

Are You There God? It's Me Amy.

Springtime reminds me of all the books I consumed when I was young. Though I'm sure I read tons during the winter, for some reason nothing comes to mind. Perhaps it was the beautiful, soft weather and crisp sunlit days that heightened the experience; book in hand, walking down to the park, or sitting on the back porch.

I remember when all the girls in the neighborhood found out about Judy Blume. Man, that was like a revolution. Whole groups would be huddled together, whispering about the "bra scene" or when Margaret "got her period." What were they talking about? No elaboration was allowed, you simply had to go get your own copy of Are You There God? It's Me Margaret. There weren't any Border's Bookstores or Barnes and Nobles back then, well, not in small town Kansas. But there was a library. And luck was with me, they happened to have one available copy of the cult book I would die to read—if it so came to that.

Blume's books were the extreme of female introspection, something I love. Mother-daughter relationships, boys, coming of age, boobies. Remember when Margaret wanted a bra and she was freaking out while her mom was at the counter paying for it? Or when she discovered that not only did you have to buy Kotex, but you needed a belt as well? That scared the holy living daylights outta me. A belt???

I read the book faster than a coyote on a wounded rabbit. And then, I did the opposite of what all the others girls had done. Instead of going around discussing it, I thought real hard about its meaning. I guess that was the writer in me surfacing early on.

When Forever came out, Mom—who happened to run the local library—banned it from our grasp. Yes, all other residents of Spring Hill could see what was inside that blasted book, just not anyone living at 506 N Franklin. It drove me insane. I heard things about sex and "The Pill." They were even going to make a movie out of it, that's how fantastic it was. I had to resign myself to reading Superfudge again, or Planet of the Frog People, which was actually strangely good in that it was about a whole town being taken over by a species of half-frog, half-human thingy's.

But the best books for spring and summer, by far, were the Lois Duncan novels. Oh. My. God. I loved those books so much. Summer of Fear, I know What you Did Last Summer, Stranger With My Face. Can you say, freaked out? I seriously could not sleep for weeks after reading these books and yet, I could not, for the life of me, stop. She was a true master in paranormal. And, of course, I loved the whole 70's feel they possessed. Did anyone try astral projection after reading these? I did, then stopped when I felt my body vibrating. What if someone jumped in and took over and I was left to hover three inches above my body for the rest of eternity?

I loved Fifteen by Beverly Cleary, a really poignant book about being in a first-time relationship. It was without gimmicks and wasn't written to freak anyone out. It was surprisingly mature, tender and yet held a deepness that touched me. What really got to me, was the fact that the male character was nice. Imagine that? A nice guy. He had manners and was a gentleman in every single way. I love that. Bad boys are cool too, oh yes, but a gentleman is powerful and sexy. It reminds me of that line in Bridget Jones's Diary when she and Mark Darcy have a hot kiss in the snowy street, and she says, "Wait a minute . . . nice boys don't kiss like that." And he's like, "Oh yes they fucking do." Sigh, Mark Darcy . . . Okay, hand me the smelling salts. Too late, I fainted.

Oh yes. My truth from yesterday was the most pathetic one of all: I dated a John Lennon impersonator. He asked me out. I was young and stupid. He cheated

on me. End of story.

Oh! I wanted to say that the Victoria's Secret one was true for my best friend Kelly. Isn't that like the coolest job ever??? And I did try out for Big Brother, using liberalism as my "selling point." Thank God I didn't make it because that was the summer Evil Dick was in the house. The thought makes me shudder.

Two Posts in a Day? Wha?

My wonderful friend Kimberly Franklin has given me the unique opportunity to tell lies about myself and not get into any trouble. Yay! I admit to being an award hogger, like she has kindly admitted about herself as well, so I'll get to this now while it's still steaming.

So, I am to tell six lies about myself and one truth and you wonderful (none of you are psychic, right) people have to figure out which one was the truth. Got it? Here we go.

1. I studied at the New York Fashion Institute and ended up working for Victoria's Secret, designing lingerie.

2. Years ago, I worked at a Newspaper office, writing up articles on local farming news. All my interviews had at least one pig and or cow present in the background.

3. I dated a John Lennon impersonator from a Beatles' Tribute Band.

4. I love to eat at HOOters. God, those chicken wings are sooooo tasty!

5. This summer, I'm going to be on a cool reality show about five liberals and five conservatives living in a house together. It's called, Big Bother.

6. One time, I was eating ice cream and when I got to the middle of the cone saw a golden ticket. I pulled it out, and ran around the park singing, "I've got a golden ticket, I've got a golden ticket . . ." until the cops came and took me away. Man, those were the days.

7. I took one of those stripper pole exercise classes, and my thong got caught on another girl's high heel and they had to extract us using someone's pink Bath and Body Works fingernail clippers.

Okay. I feel so much better now. I guess my job at this point is to issue the award to another blogger friend. The only person I can think of who hasn't done it yet is Talli Roland. Although a new friend, she has already proven to be very sweet and funny and generous with praise! She's also very witty and I enjoy reading her blog. Love her!

Lie, Talli, Lie!

Wait, Wait, Wait . . .

Patience. I must not have possessed much before, but something about sitting at a desk all night or for long stretches of the day has transformed me into a very tranquil person.

Case in point: a year ago I tried playing a game on Wii Sports where you sit very still on the Fit board and stare at a lit candle until a loud Japanese dude yells, "CUT!" I could only ever get past thirty seconds until now, a year later, when I tried it again. I sat and stared at the candle, and sat and stared, and could hear the guy walk in the room then leave–several times—but he never yelled and the game never ended. I think three minutes or so passed by, and the thing finally stopped. I won. Whoa.

All of that probably sounded really strange unless you've seen the actual game.

But the first thing that went through my head after it ended was, "It's the writing." There's something about committing to a draft that has changed my whole being. My focus is the curation of this work and to hell with kids yelling at my side, or the cat scratching at my jeans, or if it's daylight or sundown or what time is it? Writing is so very Zen.

Question: has writing changed the way you focus on things in your life?

Here's a song that has nothing to do with writing, except I like it and have an addiction to embedding things in my posts. Also, I'm addicted to records. But that's it. Oh, and books.

Mentor my Muse and Please Tell the Jehovah's to Find My Key

Last week began in a very interesting way. First, I locked myself out of the house. Then the Jehovah's Witnesses showed up. Hey, but the weather was great!

And while I did not get a ton of writing work done, I did think about the whole process and came to the realization that writing every day is what breeds more writing. I think so many of us dream of what it would be like to compose on a full-time basis—but I think writers need a little bit of chaos, and we definitely need deadlines. Unless you're Jack Kerouac and can sit and type up a whole book in a matter of weeks, you probably need some external (as well as internal) motivation beyond just saying, "I want to write."

A writer needs a mentor. For some it may be a family member or best friend, for others it might be their favorite author. I found Birdie Jaworski last year, and aside from having a certain amount in common with her, I was also amazed by her writing style and felt myself using her as a mentor to my immature writer self. I don't want to be Birdie, (okay, I do a little) I'm just glad to have found her.

Everyone has a mentor, whether they know it or not. Artists all have someone they emulate, though in the end a true artist finds their own style. It's a must. Musicians emulate the hell out of each other. I would say that every song on the radio is inspired by someone else's music, but you wouldn't know it because the artist went that extra mile to create their own way of singing or playing it. Beethoven was inspired by Mozart, writing variations on many of his works. God, I hate playing variations though, yuck. Old Ludwig did it to learn from his mentor, and in the end, found his own style. But the inspiration was a driving force, which brings us back to why why create, why we write.

We write because we have something to say, and even if it's a cheesy sci-fi novel, or gooey romance, there is a certain amount of intent behind the work. A reader is very aware of the story with no intent. It's empty and leaves them dissatisfied, like a candy bar with no nougat inside. Imagine chomping down on a Mars bar only to have the chocolate crumble under your teeth . . . not cool. We need to figure out the essential point of what we are trying to say in every project we take on, and then build the story around that point. Think layer cake.

So, this week, while I had so much time to think, I pondered chaos and mentors and intent and just exactly what is is I'm trying to say. I'm going to let it drive me around, until good things happen. Cause they will. Oh honey, you know they will.

Lonely Traveler

Harold Freemeyer was the old hermit that used to come in the library for some books and a little chat. He had recently emerged a self-induced thirty-year seclusion brought on by the Vietnam War. His hair was gray, and he wore a long beard, wore army garb, complete with old boots and loaded pack hanging off his back. He was lonely. "Is my book in?" I'd grab it off the shelf. "Oh good, say . . . have you ever seen that movie about the guy who thought he was Jesus?" And off he'd go, talking because finally it felt good to talk.

Life is full of lonely people, walking around searching in confusion, even though we're standing side to side. We reach out, hungry, and draw back, afraid. But life is beautiful, and we are so lucky to be here. The sun shines, and we feel real joy. A child laughs, and everything falls into balance.

Books have always been a companion to me. This whole week I found myself reaching for all my old friends, relishing the words which slowly chiseled me into the person I am today. They're not just paper, or pretty covers, they're people, reaching out; thousands of voices with millions of words. From one time traveling all the way to now, in my hands, comforting me, soothing the restlessness of my soul.

Harold loved his books. But he needed more, so he went where two things existed: words and people—real people. I have to laugh about the night the tornado sirens went off, and he went around handing out hot candy from his pants pockets as we all stood in the back storeroom waiting for it to pass. I love surreal moments like that. Lunacy in lucidity. Loneliness in life.

"Goodnight, Harold." He'd give a wave and hop on his bike, and we knew he'd be back the next day. More life, more stories.

I'm feeling a little Edie Brickell right now, "Shove me into shallow water . . ." But I can't help it, I'm in some sort of weird funk lately. Just ignore this post. The next one will be better.

Unplugged like Neil Young

Monday starts my week of abstaining from any and all internet pastimes. It isn't going to be easy.

I'll miss you guys something awful!!! This has been such a great week with new people saying hi, as well as faithful friends who have been here since the beginning coming by to offer their sweet support. I love you!! Check out the links and follow away.

Simone and her beautiful art and even more beautiful words.

Tess and her calm wisdom, sprinkled with humor and

excellent writing advice.

Cindy and her darling, spirited view of the world. She's been a really great friend to me!

Holly Ruggiero with her lovely pictures, insights and recipes.

Matt who's sarcasm, stories and photos always make my day.

Kristie has a really cool blog, and is a fellow YA writer working toward publication. Oh, and she's really fun too!

Erica is such a generous person, with lovely posts; another YA writer that I'm proud to know.

Kimberly is a kindred spirit, and full of spirit! Check out the awesome book cover she made. It rocks!

Tom and his witty and yet deeply internal musings. I'll miss talking to him this week.

Jennifer who is so smart and, again, generous. I love hearing about her writing experiences every day!

And that's about all I can do right now. Take care everyone and great writing to you. See ya next week!

The Approach

This is me, July 24th, 1888. That was my favorite year; the sun on my legs as I reclined, happy, above the salted sands of Cape Neddick. Some may tell you I was a bit too young for the experiment. I suppose I was, but with no family to speak of and fresh out of the New York Catholic Children's Asylum, I was desperate for any type of adventure which might take me away from the dirty streets and unironed memories of my youth. Not only that, but a genuine payment was being offered.

One day, while walking down 5th Avenue watching my reflection jump from one glass storefront to the next, I was surprised by the touch of a hand upon my right shoulder. A man in spotless dark brown suit and bowler hat to match, pulled me inside a door-well and proceeded to hand me a card which read, TIME TRAIN~travel through the ages on luxury steam express. I looked at him with what must have been a terrible display of fear, only to be met by a strange expectance.

"Miss, have you ever felt alone, especially in this grand city of a million strangers? Have you ever been poor, hungry, curious as to the world which waits aside of New York's crowded avenues?"

Confused, "Yes, but-"

"Then follow me. We have just one more seat to offer on tonight's coach."

I gasped when a currency of large amount slapped down into my gloved palm. "What is this?"

"Payment, for you are to tell no one of this interaction, or of the trip you about to embark. We need to know more, need to understand how time works. But if the information is released to, say, people of unpalatable variety, horrible things could happen, not only to our organization, but to our country, the whole world."

I stepped away, knocking into a corner spittoon. "I don't know what you mean, and pardon me, but I have to get back to-"

He cleared the space. "To where? We've been following you Abigail Burnett. You live in a tiny room, rented from an alcoholic shopkeeper. You have no family, no finance. You're alone, and for all purpose of the world, simply do not exist. You're exactly the type of person we've been looking for, and are just moldable enough for us to discipline."

"No. Thank you, but no." I brushed past him to stand on the sidewalk again. A group of waifs, all with smudged faces and unkempt hair, clothes ripped--three inches too short at the bottom and too low at the top, edges caked with grime--walked past me. I could smell their poverty. Nine-years-old, that's all they could have been. Yet speech, the scouring verbiage of sailors. Something else hit my senses--the loud blow of a train whistle. It moaned long and low, cutting through the horse hooves and shouts of a city that was too full, too dirty, too human.

I still had the money clutched in my hand. "If . . . if I go, what am I to do? What does this mean, travel through the ages?"

His pursed lips held my eyes captive, as each word issued out in staccato order, "You're just to live, Abigail. And by living, we want to see if anything dies."

Saturday Favorites

It's Saturday, and I'm going to keep it light with some of my favorite things which you can peruse at your own will.

Real quick. I want to say Thank You to Jennifer Daiker for the Superior Scribbler Award! Thank you, you are the best!

Monday I will be unplugging, which will be good as I really have to finish this book. I don't want to be like Colin from The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and stop before the finish line. I want to finish and win.

I also need to practice guitar, learn some new songs, and maybe get some new ones recorded.

I also need to get out!

But before that happens . . . here are some Youtube faves for my great blogger friends.

I laughed so hard at this video. Gotta be the worst weatherman in the world. Poor guy.

Mama Cass.


Some wonderful person scanned in almost 40 years of LIFE magazine. Talk about cool!
LIFE MAGAZINE ARCHIVES

Deep thoughts . . . by Jack Handey. Need I say more?

My favorite: When you die, if you go somewhere where they ask you a bunch of questions about your life and what you learned and all, I think a good way to get out of it is just to say, "No speaka English."

The Party, with the wonderful Peter Sellers. "Birdie num num . . ." I seriously love this movie and could watch it a thousand times.

Have a beautiful day. Peace, love and chocolate.

amy