A New Year

The past few weeks have been a strange combination of highs and lows. The highs? A pub and very first SALE at Fear and Trembling magazine. A lovely personal rejection note from Corvus that was so genuine and kind that it was almost as good as a pub. My review of Elyssa East's Dogtown merited an incredibly nice note from the author herself. You can find the review here, and while you are there, take some time to read through the other contributors. It's really a beautiful magazine.

The lows? Form rejections from Bete Noire, and One Buck Horror. 


Still waiting to hear about the potential life of "Hole" from Electric Spec and Niteblade. Everyday Fiction is still ruminating over "Black Water" after 76 days, but I'm being patient. I really like EF, and I'm hoping that the longer the story is out the more likely they will actually publish it.

I haven't been writing every day like I said I would, but I did manage to push out a flash piece that I REALLY love and is currently entered in a contest over at Shock Totem. With all of that said, there's this novel that I need to get back to working on.  Hopefully when I finish it, the round of Nano queries will be out, and mine will be in the fresh batch.

This is totally my year, ya'll. I don't care what the universe says.

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A Noob's Guide to the Gym

Okay. I get it. And don't get me wrong, I can appreciate ANYONE's New Year's Resolution to get in shape and take better care of him/herself. In fact I applaud you. Trust me, the past year has seen massive swings back in forth in my own exercise routine.

So, no, I have no inherent beef with anyone who takes it upon himself to go out and purchase a gym membership, but there are RULES, people.

1. If I'm on the treadmill, and there are plenty of treadmills available, please do not select the treadmill directly next to me. It's not that I have personal space issues; it's just that if I don't have to be splattered with your sweat, I'd rather not.

2. For that matter, if you are running on the treadmill, please do so at a reasonable speed or a speed that you can actually maintain. If you have to hold onto the machine, or if it sounds like an elephant is skipping across the treadmill, you are doing it wrong. Your sneakers shouldn't be scraping against the belt because you can't keep up the pace. It's distracting. Not to mention, I'll make fun of you as soon as one of us leaves. Slow it down, people.

3. I understand that I can re-start the machine by simply plugging the heart monitor back into the machine, but what you need to understand is that by the time I've made it to the gym, I'm at the lowest possible denominator of mental capacity. There are probably rocks with higher levels of brain activity. So when I get to the machine and press Quick Start, I expect the machine to start...quickly. And if it doesn't, I'm all

Seriously. I understand that all I have to do is plug the cord back in, but please understand that it would make things SO MUCH SIMPLER if you would just do it for me. 

4. WIPE DOWN THE MACHINES. The gym has these wonderful stations with paper towels and disinfectant. They put it there for a reason. No one wants to touch or be surrounded by your dirty human juice. There's no reason for you to be so dismissive/lazy that you can't haul yourself to the station and back to wipe down the machine you've just spent thirty oozing minutes on. 

5. When in the weight area, there's an order to things. If I'm in the middle of my reps, please don't HOVER by the machine like a dog that's waiting to piss. I get it. You want the machine next, but NO, it's not going to make me go any faster. Go do something else until I'm finished. 

6. Slamming the weights and/or grunting, shouting, cursing, or all of the above does not make you look hard. It makes you look like a total douche nozzle. Sometimes you might need to make a little noise to get out that last rep, but trust me, the ladies aren't impressed by your neolithic grunting. 

7. It's fine to fill up your protein shake bottle at the water fountain, but if there is a line of twenty very thirsty people behind you, please step aside. Your Muscle Milk can wait. 

8. Ladies, standing around the machinery in full make up, immaculately styled hair, and the tightest yoga pants known to man while flirting with the personal trainers isn't cute. The gym is for working out, not for finding someone to take you to Applebees on Friday night. That appletini and then banging it out in his mom's basement better be worth it.

9. If you can afford a gym membership, but you can't afford a pair of sweat pants, you need to seriously re-evaluate your priorities. Blue jeans are for Casual Fridays, not the gym. 

10. WHY ARE YOU RUNNING BAREFOOT?? There is a distinct possibility that whatever foot fungus that's hiding between your sweaty toes will somehow eat through my sneakers and infect me. Put on some damn shoes. 

Please, noobs. Get your act together and let's make the gym a pleasurable experience for everyone. 

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Tiny Creepies

Working on a new piece of flash fiction for Shock Totem. The topic is AMAZINGLY CREEPY. Seriously shit your pants kind of stuff, and I'm in that first draft stage where you vacillate between the excitement of a kid jacked up on Mountain Dew and the promise of Santa bringing a new X Box, and the despair that every writer hits during the first draft stage.

Right now I both love and hate what I've done, and I'm scared about relying on my own judgement before submitting this piece. Usually, I try to have some other writer whom I greatly respect lay eyes on it before submitting, but the deadline is the 7th, and I don't really want to put that kind of pressure on a fellow writer.

But I'm glad it's flash. I love the nature of flash fiction, the smallness of it. The potential for making every word burn.

It's bitchin stuff.

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Finding a Home for Hole

"Hole," or as I more affectionately know it "Bree's Story" is still without a home. I've gotten a fresh rejection from Bete Noire today, and I'm not going to lie, this one stung. As a magazine that claims to pride itself on providing personal rejections, it hurt to open my email and see the same old form rejection that every other publication sends. Oh well. I like the magazine very much and will try again in the future.

So the grand total comes to three with rejections from Clarkesworld and Shimmer, my dream publications. I'm waiting on One Buck Horror, Electric Spec, and Niteblade. All of them have slim publication rates, but of all of the stories I've written, I'm most proud of this one and figured I may as well shoot for the big suckers.

Still waiting to hear back from Everyday Fiction about "Black Water," and it's been out for 56 days. I know, I know, wahh, wahh, wahh, waiting to hear back is hard, but really it is.

My goal for today is to finally install Word on my Mac so that I can get back to working on Find Me Here. My goal is to have the first draft finished by February.

Happy Writing!

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Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-Legged Beasties

In my heart every day is Halloween. My husband will never understand my obsession with all things macabre, but I'm drawn to it. For a long time, I felt the need to hide my love for horror films and books, ashamed that amongst my more literary minded colleagues, my interests were amateurish. I feared they would flog me with Keats, snicker at me from behind their copies of Ulysses, and preach about the greater joys of reading Chaucer in one's spare time.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't as if I've sequestered myself into one small area of all literary-dom with no intent of ever venturing outside, but this girl can't deny that she loves to be scared. Thank God for Henry James, and Bram Stoker, for Edgar Allen Poe and Shirley Jackson, for H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King.

And so for years, I've been rather quiet about loving all things that go bump in the night. Most certainly I never shared my penchant for the Gothic with my writer colleagues, and I most certainly did not write any speculative fiction for submission to any of my critique groups or writing workshops.

Then I started to get bored. Started even to dislike what I was writing. I stumbled across Shimmer Magazine by complete chance and began reading. When I was finished, my flesh crawled. It was exactly the feeling that I had been missing.

Slowly, I began to seek out a network of writers and magazines--writers and magazines who are producing NOW--and started researching. Check out Aaron Polson if you have some time and are a fan of the genre. After many hours devoted to wrapping up my Capstone, I'm letting myself say it loud and say it proud. I'm writing horror, dammit.

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On Miscarriage

We were on our way to a wedding when it happened. The doctor's had told us that bleeding was common, that I was still very early and not to worry. I told myself that I wouldn't write about it. Ever since it happened, I swore up and down that I wouldn't; swore that I wouldn't even mention it outside of family and a small circle of friends who make up my support system.

I feel like I've done a good job, feel that I've managed to overcome it. Maybe not forget that it happened altogether, but there are days that go by where I don't think about it, and that is a small blessing in itself. Because when I do think about it, I'm back in the July heat in that squalid South Carolina bathroom, back in that backwoods urgent care facility while a doctor pokes and prods at the rawest part of me and tells me "You're fine. There's nothing there."

And then there are days like today. Where all of sudden it's there again in all of its nightmarish ferocity, threatening to tear me open from the inside out. It was a simple mistake, I'm sure. They probably just forgot to remove my name from a mailing list.

From my doctor this morning came a reminder email to schedule my 6 month ultrasound. As of Halloween, I would have known the sex of the baby I lost in July. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've continued to keep count of the days until deadlines like this. Halloween for the sex; February for my due date. Of course, this counting had become largely subconscious, like blinking or breathing, but largely, I'd let myself start to heal.

Seeing this reminder of the child I lost ripped through me like a cold wind. Had it lived, I'd have been showing by now. Maybe even picked out a name, started decorating a nursery. The email, however good the intentions were, left me reelilng and violently angry.

Miscarriage is common amongst first and early pregnancy, and while I may feel that my story is unique, that no other woman could have possibly experienced the type of grief that I had, it simply isn't true. Because there are so many other women who have shared my pain. I wanted my doctor to understand being part of a larger statistic doesn't invalidate this hurt, shouldn't allow such callousness on his office's part. I wish I could say this is the first time they've made such a mistake, but it isn't. During a follow up visit, I was asked how far along I was despite my chart that clearly indicated that the pregnancy had ended.

I was afraid, ashamed even, of people knowing, of their questioning why I would share such intimate information. But now, I feel a need to not hide it in the dark any more. It happened. It cannot be taken back. Not for me and not for thousands of other women.

I cannot forget. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do to distract myself the memory is ever present, an indelible part of me that cannot be removed as easily as deletion from a mailing list.

And even though it hurt, I realized I don't want to forget. Not completely.

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Grocery Guilt

Publix is my favorite grocery store. Maybe because it smells like bread all of the time. Maybe because it's the freshest produce I can find since Acworth has never heard of Whole Foods. Whatever the reason, I love doing my grocery shopping there. Except for one thing.

Normally I'm not a buggy shopper, (and yes, I call it a buggy, not a cart. I live in the South, dammit), but it's hard to fit one of those giant packages of toilet paper in one of those itty, bitty baskets, so today, I had a buggy.

I have a certain tactic to checking out with a buggy. I'll scout the checkers, looking for the one that doesn't have a bagger. You see, Publix has a policy that I'm convinced is tatooed across the backs of every employee. CARRYOUT SERVICE IS REQUIRED FOR BUGGY SHOPPERS.

So when I have a buggy, I pray that I can pay for my items and get out of the store without someone chirping, "Can I help you to your car?"

Now don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful service, but it makes me more uncomfortable than watching a dog get friendly with a stranger's leg.

If I say yes, I cannot abide the awkward silences or mundane conversations about the weather that surely come along with carryout service. Not to mention the inordinate amount of guilt I feel watching some poor soul chuck 50 pounds of groceries into my trunk in 100 degree Georgia heat.

Even worse is when I say no. Then I feel like I may as well have just murdered their kitten. Like I'm the only thing that's getting them through their work day, and since I said no, what, really, is the point in living any more?

You aren't supposed to tip them, but I always feel compelled to give them something. A hug would be too much, a handshake too formal. Last time, I gave a friendly punch on the shoulder and a "Thanks, dude." I don't think the nice, 55 year-old gentleman who helped me to my car appreciated the gesture.

So today, when I wheeled my buggy through a bagger free line, I almost cried with happiness at the possibility of getting out of there without the following interchange.

"Help you to your car?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm good." *CRINGE*

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Thanks though!" **DOUBLE CRINGE**

OH GOD THE FEELINGS OF GUILT AND SHAME!!!

I was almost scot-free, was rolling on out through the automatic doors, when an employee stopped me, placed a hand on my buggy, and asked the question.

And in my head, I was all "NO, NO, NO. Do not ask me that. I'll have to be honest with you and break your heart. WHY do you have to make me feel like a complete asshole?"

I politely refused, and she looked at my like I was crazy.

And then it dawned on me. Maybe I AM the crazy one. After all, who doesn't want the task of unloading one's groceries foisted off onto some other poor, hapless soul?

Maybe I'm just that one anti-social moron who thinks it's odd and squirmy. Am I so much a part of the self-service generation that I have forgotten--nay, even delegated to the purgatory of awkardness--the luxury of full service??!

Once upon a time, there were people waiting to pump our gas, wash our cars, answer our questions over the telephone when we had them.

All of which got me thinking about technology and the world we live in. I've always been one of those people who would rather deal with a machine. If I can look it up on the internet instead of actually interacting with another person, you can count me in. It's one of those weird nueroses I have. You know, the fear that someone may think you're stupid after conversating with you for less than five minutes?

Anyway, I've recently actually needed to speak with a living, breathing, flesh and blood person, and all I've gotten was a machine. The absolute anger and frustration over not being able to get in touch with anyone was enough to have me running around my house like a hamster in one of those freaking balls that are supposed to get them some exercise. Whoever heard of a hamster exercising anyway?

So maybe next time, I'll slow down a little and let the nice bagger take my groceries for me. Maybe I'll even try a little conversation.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time I call my doctor's office, someone will answer. But I doubt it.

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