I write blogs on two different sites. This one and the Ms J. This is my personal one. This is the one where the truly weird will emerge at a moments notice. And, if you're a very devoted reader, you may catch a drunk blog float by in the wee hours of the morning during a blizzard when I'm home alone and bored and have a bottle wine. I will delete it very quickly, because we can't have things like that out there. But if you're clever enough, you'll see it.
Tonight is a very special blog. You see, tonight is a blog derived from the the worst cold of my life and NyQuil. I should be going to bed. But instead I'm working. And blogging. They're similar but not the same. I have no idea if this will make a lot of sense or none at all. I promise to do my best.
But I'm working at the same time, so I keep jumping back and forth to add things here and there as I think of them. What am I working on? If I told you, you'd never believe me. No, really. It's completely unbelievable and I'm so pumped this is my life.
I sent out the ARCs for THE HOPE THAT STARTS today.
Can we all just take a minute and think about that? Like, this is book 5. Of a series that I never planned on writing. And I'm so very excited about this one because it has all the nerd references and the nerd love and I get to look at pictures of Miles as I write because he will always be Harrison to me.
In full disclosure, there was a moment in the beginning/middle that got a little sketch. I wasn't sure if I was going to publish LEARN TO FLY. I could only get one person to read it (sister shout out!), it was a weird idea for a romance, I had no idea if people would like it. Come to find out, not a lot of people did. But enough of you did that I went ahead and wrote book 2 (which still happens to be my favorite, I don't care if you hate it). And now we're up to book 5.
This band, these characters have been so incredibly fun. It's going to be difficult to say goodbye. I have Sway's story left. And maybe Carl's someday in the future. But otherwise, that's it. I don't know if I can actually walk away from them entirely so I've come up with an idea that will probably make me lose my mind.
I'm going to write a collection of short stories about the band members as chosen by the fans. I will have a form you can fill out if you want to be a part of it. (See! Working!) The idea is that you, the fan, will choose a song that you love, a band member, and a scenario. Then I write a short story based on that. I will put them all together in a collection and basically give it away.
Do I have time to do this? No. Not at all.
I'm also working on a whole new series that I hope to have out to you sometime next summer/fall.
Plus a super secret project (that's what everyone is doing now, right? something that no one cares about so we call it secret and hope that they start to care), involving writing and writing and tearing my hair out and twisting my brain and writing some more.
And now has come the portion of the evening where I can no longer fight the NyQuil. I need to go to bed. I will see most of you on the other side.
I leave you with the very wise words of Nick Hexum:
Stay positive, love your life.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
Come Over So I Can Cuddle Your Brains
Jumping onto the coattails of the other blog I wrote today, I will further talk about things that have no relevance to your life. Hurray!
If you haven't read the first one (because, why would you? unless you're stalking me) then you can get it here --> Ms J Bog and Review
Though this one will have no Spike gifs and more introspection. Boring, I know. Before you read further please note, I'm not trying to be mean. I've been told that I speak/write aggressively. *shrug* In my head, I'm just being precise.
So... here we go.
Perhaps you've noticed (I'm only addressing your notice to be polite. because I know the likelihood of that is zip. unless, again, you're stalking me *waves*) that we (me, Laura, Kellcie, Jo, etc--basically anyone with an alter ego on Sherlock) talk about our Myers Briggs personality types like it's a real thing. To us it is. If you don't get into all that, that's totally fine, I don't hate. But it's made the way my brain functions so much easier for me to cope with. Because I'm weird, I've always been weird, and it turns out there's actually nothing wrong with me (har har, laugh it up).
I don't want to bore you with all of the details of how I got to the conclusions that I have. Especially if you don't find it even kind of interesting. If you're curious about my super weird and abrasive personality type (INTJ), you can go here to get a good overview --> http://personalityjunkie.com/the-intj/ But it's not required reading and there will be no test at the end.
What I want to write about today is a small section of my head that most of you (stalkers included) don't know about. The part where I notice everything. Especially if it doesn't belong to you.
Let me explain.
I like people. I like how everyone is different. We're a product of our personalities, our hearts, souls, experiences, geography, perceptions, etc. No two people are exactly alike. And they shouldn't be, for Pete's sake! My brain picks up on the nuanced differences. The similarities are obvious for obvious reasons, but the things that set us apart are what make us true works of art. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. The way people pronounce certain words, their eyes when they talk about different subjects, their posture, the rate, frequency, and intensity of their laugh, their million different smiles, frowns and blank stares.
I really like people. I really like honest people. I'm not saying that I like it when people spew about their own contrived self-importance because, to them, that's being honest. What I'm talking about is the honesty of their living. Their expressions are their own, not borrowed from someone else.
Because there are far too many scavengers out there. Maybe you think you're getting away with it. Maybe you think no one notices that you pick through the flesh and muscle of real people, tear out what you wish were yours and wear it like the Reavers in Firefly. Yo might be fooling a lot of people. But you are not fooling me.
Going back up to what I said earlier. I notice everything. I don't always point it out (read:never) because I've known enough people like you to know that it would be a waste of time. You're going to get defensive and dramatic and then roll over and play victim until I "stop picking on you."
But... I. Notice.
You're not fooling me. Which is why you're boring to me. Because you're a knock-off. Like gears grinding in protest, I hear the painful way the bits and pieces don't fit together. People have a flow, they have a unique energy about them. It can be confident, cunning, dangerous, insecure even. But it belongs to them. You feel like someone wearing eight different Halloween costumes on Easter and still begging for candy. You. Don't. Flow.
When I'm talking to someone who is honest about who they are, I feel it. It's warm, and soothing. It feels natural and mysterious and exciting. They pull me into their rare and beautiful undertow and I'm... enchanted.
About 10 years ago, Cap and I were dating. He was out of town with a couple of friends at the Voo Doo Musical Festival in New Orleans. I was on my own that weekend. Working, as usual. One of his roommates, we'll can call him John for lack of better name, stopped by my work and asked if I wanted to hangout that night.
John was weird. He freaked people out. He made inappropriate jokes and deliberately started fights with people becuase he thought it was funny.
I probably didn't fit with the type of people he normally hung out with.
So obviously I said yes.
We sat in the living room of their house in candlelight and played chess for a few hours while drinking beer. The lights weren't on because they didn't like paying the light bill. So candles it was.
We talked about everything. The posters on the living room wall would probably make another girl uncomfortable. He pointed that out. I hadn't noticed. We then talked about each poster and what it represented and how it made us feel. It was strange. (If you would like to know what the posters were, private message me. this is a family blog)
It was awesome.
It was a connection that was new and interesting and amazing. John frightened me sometimes with his explosive anger. He had a tendency to overreact. He fell in love too fast and too hard. He was a hypocrite who was fine with that trait. He was also always, always, sweet to me. Careful, even.
John was honest. Sometimes totally messed up, but honest. And he's still one of my favorite people to this day. Even if he has pissed off everyone else who loved him and burned those bridges.
Maybe it's just the latent punk rocker in me. I applaud individuality. Be yourself, no one is going to do it better. Even if it's weird and people don't respond well. Chances are I'm gonna love the heck out of you.
However, if you're putting on pieces of people like it's your new cardigan, chances are you're going to piss me off. Chances are I'm going to avoid you.
I especially notice if you've attempted to steal bits of myself. Because guess who knows herself pretty well? You can blame the Ni. So when you start putting on bits of me, I see that too. Big time.
And trust me, you are not rocking it.
If you haven't read the first one (because, why would you? unless you're stalking me) then you can get it here --> Ms J Bog and Review
Though this one will have no Spike gifs and more introspection. Boring, I know. Before you read further please note, I'm not trying to be mean. I've been told that I speak/write aggressively. *shrug* In my head, I'm just being precise.
So... here we go.
Perhaps you've noticed (I'm only addressing your notice to be polite. because I know the likelihood of that is zip. unless, again, you're stalking me *waves*) that we (me, Laura, Kellcie, Jo, etc--basically anyone with an alter ego on Sherlock) talk about our Myers Briggs personality types like it's a real thing. To us it is. If you don't get into all that, that's totally fine, I don't hate. But it's made the way my brain functions so much easier for me to cope with. Because I'm weird, I've always been weird, and it turns out there's actually nothing wrong with me (har har, laugh it up).
I don't want to bore you with all of the details of how I got to the conclusions that I have. Especially if you don't find it even kind of interesting. If you're curious about my super weird and abrasive personality type (INTJ), you can go here to get a good overview --> http://personalityjunkie.com/the-intj/ But it's not required reading and there will be no test at the end.
What I want to write about today is a small section of my head that most of you (stalkers included) don't know about. The part where I notice everything. Especially if it doesn't belong to you.
Let me explain.
I like people. I like how everyone is different. We're a product of our personalities, our hearts, souls, experiences, geography, perceptions, etc. No two people are exactly alike. And they shouldn't be, for Pete's sake! My brain picks up on the nuanced differences. The similarities are obvious for obvious reasons, but the things that set us apart are what make us true works of art. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. The way people pronounce certain words, their eyes when they talk about different subjects, their posture, the rate, frequency, and intensity of their laugh, their million different smiles, frowns and blank stares.
I really like people. I really like honest people. I'm not saying that I like it when people spew about their own contrived self-importance because, to them, that's being honest. What I'm talking about is the honesty of their living. Their expressions are their own, not borrowed from someone else.
Because there are far too many scavengers out there. Maybe you think you're getting away with it. Maybe you think no one notices that you pick through the flesh and muscle of real people, tear out what you wish were yours and wear it like the Reavers in Firefly. Yo might be fooling a lot of people. But you are not fooling me.
Going back up to what I said earlier. I notice everything. I don't always point it out (read:never) because I've known enough people like you to know that it would be a waste of time. You're going to get defensive and dramatic and then roll over and play victim until I "stop picking on you."
But... I. Notice.
You're not fooling me. Which is why you're boring to me. Because you're a knock-off. Like gears grinding in protest, I hear the painful way the bits and pieces don't fit together. People have a flow, they have a unique energy about them. It can be confident, cunning, dangerous, insecure even. But it belongs to them. You feel like someone wearing eight different Halloween costumes on Easter and still begging for candy. You. Don't. Flow.
When I'm talking to someone who is honest about who they are, I feel it. It's warm, and soothing. It feels natural and mysterious and exciting. They pull me into their rare and beautiful undertow and I'm... enchanted.
About 10 years ago, Cap and I were dating. He was out of town with a couple of friends at the Voo Doo Musical Festival in New Orleans. I was on my own that weekend. Working, as usual. One of his roommates, we'll can call him John for lack of better name, stopped by my work and asked if I wanted to hangout that night.
John was weird. He freaked people out. He made inappropriate jokes and deliberately started fights with people becuase he thought it was funny.
I probably didn't fit with the type of people he normally hung out with.
So obviously I said yes.
We sat in the living room of their house in candlelight and played chess for a few hours while drinking beer. The lights weren't on because they didn't like paying the light bill. So candles it was.
We talked about everything. The posters on the living room wall would probably make another girl uncomfortable. He pointed that out. I hadn't noticed. We then talked about each poster and what it represented and how it made us feel. It was strange. (If you would like to know what the posters were, private message me. this is a family blog)
It was awesome.
It was a connection that was new and interesting and amazing. John frightened me sometimes with his explosive anger. He had a tendency to overreact. He fell in love too fast and too hard. He was a hypocrite who was fine with that trait. He was also always, always, sweet to me. Careful, even.
John was honest. Sometimes totally messed up, but honest. And he's still one of my favorite people to this day. Even if he has pissed off everyone else who loved him and burned those bridges.
Maybe it's just the latent punk rocker in me. I applaud individuality. Be yourself, no one is going to do it better. Even if it's weird and people don't respond well. Chances are I'm gonna love the heck out of you.
However, if you're putting on pieces of people like it's your new cardigan, chances are you're going to piss me off. Chances are I'm going to avoid you.
I especially notice if you've attempted to steal bits of myself. Because guess who knows herself pretty well? You can blame the Ni. So when you start putting on bits of me, I see that too. Big time.
And trust me, you are not rocking it.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
12 Days of Christmas: My favorite memory
The holidays are upon us and I have been so busy with regular life stuff that I feel completely unprepared. My plan is to get my tree up today (finally!). That sounds like fun, right? And next week, drum roll please, my sister is coming over to help make Christmas cookies with my little guy.
I like the cookie making part of Christmas. It's my favorite. I have this recipe that I totally stole from my mom, frosting included. It's the only cookie that needs to made during the Christmas season. It should only be made during the holidays because it's that delicious, that special, and that important.
Which is why my sister +Laura Gibson is going to participate in the traditional generational passing down of the Christmas cookie making tradition. Because my son Bear is 3 now.
It's time.
It's important to teach him all the things we've learned over the years. And to let him know where to start when he begins his own exploration of the boundaries of cookie making. For instance, he should know that we've already mixed all the colors of frosting and it will always make black. And if you make a black snowman, my mom will not be amused, but my dad will laugh every time he walks past the cookie plate.
And if you insist on making a frosting replica of Mount Doom, it is vital you fill the inside with red hots. Anything else is bush league.
Broken cookies can be eaten immediately as long as you frost it first.
And the frosting itself needs to be used appopriatley. None of this, so-thin-you-can-still-see-the-cookie stuff. What even is that? It's Christmas! Frost your cookies. There is no such thing as "too much frosting." Really.
 | |||
| From the "Frost Off" December 2011 |
Yes, there were actual cookies under those beautiful piles of frosting. And we actually ate them.
Make all the colors, use all the sprinkles. Have fun, be crazy. Sure, the perfect cookies look nice and are more presentable. I totally noticed Mama arrange the the tray and hide the "artistic" cookies underneath the pretty one when company was coming over.
But the fun ones taste the best.
Because we dumped a whole lot of laughter into them when they were made.
You know who else loves cookies? Harrison O'Neil.
Book 5, THE HOPE THAT STARTS, will release January 29. I'm very excited about this one. It was super fun to write, even if it made me hungry the entire time. Here's a special UNEDITED excerpt, just for you, yes, YOU!
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It was really no secret that Harrison loved food. It was the core of many a joke told in and around the band and his family. He ate round the clock and when it had been too lengthy of a time between meals, he could get particularly grumpy. But he'd never been described as being too picky when he was hungry. He appreciated good food, to be sure, but when he was hungry, anything would do.
Sandwiches had been, and probably always would be, his favorite.
They were easy to make. You could change the flavor with the simplest ingredients. The essentials for making a sandwich were usually on hand and it took less than three minutes to construct a meal that would keep him full. Well, at least until his next meal.
This sandwich though, was no ordinary sandwich.
Pastrami, Swiss cheese, mayonnaise, avocado, tomatoes and sliced green peppers.
It was nothing he hadn't had a hundred times before, but there was definitely nuanced differences. The texture, the flavor, the essence of the sandwich was like nothing he'd ever experienced.
“Right?” Sway asked with a knowing head nod.
Harrison set the half eaten sandwich down on his plate and looked at it cautiously. “What the hell did she do to it?”
Sway barked a short laugh and pushed his hair out his face as he leaned back against the bus wall. He tapped his index finger on the table right by the plate. “That, what you're tasting right there, is love.”
Harrison's eyes connected with the bassist's. That made sense. His mom and sisters often joked that the reason he loved their cooking so much was because they put love in it. That was it. That was the small difference. It had to be. He had no idea love had a taste until this second.
Now, he would never joke about it again.
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Pre-order links:
Amazon Barnes & Noble
iBooks Smashwords
Merry Christmas! Now, go make some cookies.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
ARC Request for The Hope That Starts
I am almost ready to send out ARCs of THE HOPE
THAT STARTS. It's the fifth book in the Double Blind Study series, but
can be read all by itself. If you are a blogger or a reader who also
reviews occasionally, consider filling out this form ---> http://goo.gl/forms/vtzKXPAgzn
THE HOPE THAT STARTS
You can never have too much music... or mayonnaise.
It's sort of been Harrison O'Neil's credo for the better part of his life.
At least since he first discovered his love for playing the guitar and developed a taste for gourmet sandwiches. He couldn't pinpoint which one happened first, and it didn't matter to him. Food and music have always been equally important.
If there's one thing Zelda Fitzpatrick is good at, it's fandom. She can out-nerd the nerdiest, her devotion knows no bounds. Her love is true, her motives pure. Oh, and she's also a talented freelance photographer, newly hired to go on the road with her favorite band, Double Blind Study. All she has to do is not ruin this opportunity with her plethora of Tolkien references (which are in abundance), or the fan girl inside who has a mind of her own.
And she definitely shouldn't fall madly in love with lead guitarist, Harrison O'Neil... who is taken. Unfortunately.
Zelda is more than the band's new photographer. She loves Star Trek, Doctor Who, and making gourmet sandwiches. This puts Harrison O'Neil in the very awkward position of loving Zelda's sandwiches—with their perfect ingredients, and impeccable construction, and their ability to make his heart happy without even trying—and being in a relationship with another woman... who thinks he should cut out eating sandwiches entirely.
Which one will win out, his heart or his stomach?
Is there a difference?
This story is an ode to a fan girl. Because, male or female, we all have one inside of us. And sometimes, on the rarest and most wonderful of occasions, the fan girl's dream gets displayed in all of it's beauty.
The Double Blind Study series continues. Each book in the series focuses on one band member at a time and they can all be read on their own.
If this book were a movie, it would be rated PG-13.
THE HOPE THAT STARTS
You can never have too much music... or mayonnaise.
It's sort of been Harrison O'Neil's credo for the better part of his life.
At least since he first discovered his love for playing the guitar and developed a taste for gourmet sandwiches. He couldn't pinpoint which one happened first, and it didn't matter to him. Food and music have always been equally important.
If there's one thing Zelda Fitzpatrick is good at, it's fandom. She can out-nerd the nerdiest, her devotion knows no bounds. Her love is true, her motives pure. Oh, and she's also a talented freelance photographer, newly hired to go on the road with her favorite band, Double Blind Study. All she has to do is not ruin this opportunity with her plethora of Tolkien references (which are in abundance), or the fan girl inside who has a mind of her own.
And she definitely shouldn't fall madly in love with lead guitarist, Harrison O'Neil... who is taken. Unfortunately.
Zelda is more than the band's new photographer. She loves Star Trek, Doctor Who, and making gourmet sandwiches. This puts Harrison O'Neil in the very awkward position of loving Zelda's sandwiches—with their perfect ingredients, and impeccable construction, and their ability to make his heart happy without even trying—and being in a relationship with another woman... who thinks he should cut out eating sandwiches entirely.
Which one will win out, his heart or his stomach?
Is there a difference?
This story is an ode to a fan girl. Because, male or female, we all have one inside of us. And sometimes, on the rarest and most wonderful of occasions, the fan girl's dream gets displayed in all of it's beauty.
The Double Blind Study series continues. Each book in the series focuses on one band member at a time and they can all be read on their own.
If this book were a movie, it would be rated PG-13.
Friday, November 14, 2014
Long Overdue Recognition
I have more ideas than I can count for stories. So many beautiful stories. Filled with beautiful people.
It's my way of saying "thank you" to those people who have made an impact on my life. It's the smallest way I know how to make them live forever. They are in my mind, in my heart, then I put them on paper and they go live in someone else's mind and heart for a short time.
My hope is that those who read the stories will see within them what I was trying to say.
I write romance novels. I have no presupposition to think that I'll be changing the world any time soon.
But that's not why I write.
I'm writing the longest thank you letter to those who have already changed my world. Whether is was something they said or did, or simply how they changed the radio station that one time without having to be asked, they gave me something.
If you pick up one of my stories someday and you see the hint of yourself in my hero, that was deliberate. Don't argue with me either, because you should already know I'm too stubborn to listen. You might think that I'm romantisicing the facts, making you into a better person that you really are. But I'm not. If you don't want to remembered as a hero, then stop being so heroic. Though, that might be impossible in your case.
I'm trying, as hard as I can, to showcase you. All of you. Those rare birds that came into my life during unfortunate circumstances and sang me a song. I'm not great at displaying my affection broadly. I'm also not great at putting my inner turmoil out on display for speculation and interpretation. But I can write it down in my simple stories.
Thank you for letting me see you. For being the inspiration to my favorite characters. For making me laugh on days when I really, really needed to laugh. For showing me what lovely looks like. For showing me what people are truly capable of when we just let them fly.
I saw everything. I committed it to memory. You were amazing.
It's my way of saying "thank you" to those people who have made an impact on my life. It's the smallest way I know how to make them live forever. They are in my mind, in my heart, then I put them on paper and they go live in someone else's mind and heart for a short time.
My hope is that those who read the stories will see within them what I was trying to say.
I write romance novels. I have no presupposition to think that I'll be changing the world any time soon.
But that's not why I write.
I'm writing the longest thank you letter to those who have already changed my world. Whether is was something they said or did, or simply how they changed the radio station that one time without having to be asked, they gave me something.
If you pick up one of my stories someday and you see the hint of yourself in my hero, that was deliberate. Don't argue with me either, because you should already know I'm too stubborn to listen. You might think that I'm romantisicing the facts, making you into a better person that you really are. But I'm not. If you don't want to remembered as a hero, then stop being so heroic. Though, that might be impossible in your case.
I'm trying, as hard as I can, to showcase you. All of you. Those rare birds that came into my life during unfortunate circumstances and sang me a song. I'm not great at displaying my affection broadly. I'm also not great at putting my inner turmoil out on display for speculation and interpretation. But I can write it down in my simple stories.
Thank you for letting me see you. For being the inspiration to my favorite characters. For making me laugh on days when I really, really needed to laugh. For showing me what lovely looks like. For showing me what people are truly capable of when we just let them fly.
I saw everything. I committed it to memory. You were amazing.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Rope: Coming Loose
All I want is to listen to really hard and heavy rock and roll while I write.
Really. That's it.
My frustration level has reached an all new high. I'm terribly cranky right now. I guess when I get even just the littlest tiny bit pissed off I become a great big scary monster that ruins people. And that's when I'm pulling my punches.
Imagine, for a small terrifying second, what I could accomplish if I truly wasn't trying to be a better person.
Found out two weeks ago that I'm an INTJ. This realization has answered a lot of questions. It's helped me put some things into perspective. It's also made me incredibly thankful for the gift of my sister and my husband. Because without them and their particular personalities, I would have been left on my own and who knows what kind of monster I would be today.
If you google INTJ and read the description, it's accurate to me by about 95%. I won't tell you which parts aren't true (spoilers). Anyway, I guess my brain isn't broken after all. There's nothing "wrong" with me. So hear me while I shout this at my computer screan, "STOP TRYING TO FIX ME!!"
I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know. I like it that way. I don't think it's imperative to be besties with every person I come into contact with. I like knowing there are only a handful of people, chosen and vetted by myself, who know the dark duckling that I am. Not to say I can't be friends with many people. I totally can and I totally am. But they don't all get to see the soft squishy that resides behind the Death Glare.
To get angry with me for holding a part of myself separate from the rest of the world just proves my theory that you can't be trusted with it anyway. Don't take it personally, I'm not being cruel. I'm being honest.
True story: One time I had a roommate. I've actually had two, neither relationship ended well. (Still sorry about that, most of it was my fault.) Anyway, this roommate, we'll call her Tish, had been living with me for a few months. She slept in one day and I cleaned the house. I wasn't mad at her. I was indifferent towards her, which some people perceive as mad (shrug). She came out of her room and went to the bathroom, then went back to her room and shut the door.
I kept doing my thing. Her boyfriend showed up, I let him in, he went back to her room. I kept cleaning. A few minutes later they left. I think I was vacuuming at this point. I shut the vacuum off and heard the water spigot on the outside of the house running. I went to the window and looked outside to see Tish brushing her teeth.
Really.
I guess the Death Glare made her believe that if she used the bathroom for what it's supposed to be used for, I was going to kill her.
Really.
I tell you this story because it still makes me laugh to this day. I wasn't mad at her. I was working. She told everyone I was mad. Which made me look like Mommy Dearest in training because who makes someone brush their teeth outside? Really, what kind of messed crap is that?
Now, she may have been feeling guilty because she set one of my pans on fire when she was cooking a cheddar filled hotdog and then tried to bury the evidence. I found it later. And one thing that actually does piss me off is incompetency. Still wouldn't have made her brush her teeth outside.
Why did I share this? Because it makes sense now and it's even more hilarious than it used to be. But also because the extroverts of the world keep trying to "help" me. Please, for the love of Pete, stop. I'm fine. I don't need to be rescued or repaired. Yes, I'm weird. Yes, my personality probably freaks you out and makes you uncomfortable. I appreciate that you are trying to include me. But understand that I am just as happy sitting in the corner and watching everything
as you are being the center of attention.
Don't force me to be an extrovert. If I end up getting too stressed out (see: forced extroversion), I become a nightmare. And not the fun kind. The kind where I'm moody and emotional and I HATE EVERYTHING. When I tell you nicely to "back off." That is not code for "try harder." I don't speak in code. I think about what I want to say and then I say it. When you ignore the actual words that come out of my mouth, I lose any smidgen of respect I had for you at all.
Side note:
And if you see me in a coffee shop with my back to the room and headphones in, that is not an invitation to join me. I will make this face at you
until you leave.
Don't misunderstand. Occasionally there will be an activity that interests me and excites me and I will participate wholeheartedly. Again, my participation needs to be left up to me. But if you are boring or mean to people or a general dick, I probably won't want to spend time with you. Because I have learned enough about people (don't knock the corner sitting, it's very revealing), to recognize the ones I want to spend time with. Don't get bent about it, just find someone else to hang out with. No one should be expected to mesh perfectly with everyone else. I'm not a universal donor over here. I don't fit well with all types. I know that about myself and I'm okay with that. Stop trying to force us to mix. I', Red Bull and you're milk. I will make you curdle. It'll be gross for all involved. So stop forcing the issue.
I need new headphones.
And I need to write about these rock stars that I love.
If you've read this far, here's a bonus and rare reveal of feelings:
I write about musicians because I've known so many and I adore them. Truly magnificent people who made my life bright and loud and made me feel like less of a freak when I was with them. But maybe that's the nerd characteristic. The little gene in human DNA that not everyone is blessed with. If you are a nerd about something to the point of passionate obsession, I probably love you.
Am I a paradox? Yeah, actually I am. If you do your research you'll see that that's perfectly normal.
Really. That's it.
My frustration level has reached an all new high. I'm terribly cranky right now. I guess when I get even just the littlest tiny bit pissed off I become a great big scary monster that ruins people. And that's when I'm pulling my punches.
Imagine, for a small terrifying second, what I could accomplish if I truly wasn't trying to be a better person.
Found out two weeks ago that I'm an INTJ. This realization has answered a lot of questions. It's helped me put some things into perspective. It's also made me incredibly thankful for the gift of my sister and my husband. Because without them and their particular personalities, I would have been left on my own and who knows what kind of monster I would be today.
If you google INTJ and read the description, it's accurate to me by about 95%. I won't tell you which parts aren't true (spoilers). Anyway, I guess my brain isn't broken after all. There's nothing "wrong" with me. So hear me while I shout this at my computer screan, "STOP TRYING TO FIX ME!!"
I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know. I like it that way. I don't think it's imperative to be besties with every person I come into contact with. I like knowing there are only a handful of people, chosen and vetted by myself, who know the dark duckling that I am. Not to say I can't be friends with many people. I totally can and I totally am. But they don't all get to see the soft squishy that resides behind the Death Glare.
To get angry with me for holding a part of myself separate from the rest of the world just proves my theory that you can't be trusted with it anyway. Don't take it personally, I'm not being cruel. I'm being honest.
True story: One time I had a roommate. I've actually had two, neither relationship ended well. (Still sorry about that, most of it was my fault.) Anyway, this roommate, we'll call her Tish, had been living with me for a few months. She slept in one day and I cleaned the house. I wasn't mad at her. I was indifferent towards her, which some people perceive as mad (shrug). She came out of her room and went to the bathroom, then went back to her room and shut the door.
I kept doing my thing. Her boyfriend showed up, I let him in, he went back to her room. I kept cleaning. A few minutes later they left. I think I was vacuuming at this point. I shut the vacuum off and heard the water spigot on the outside of the house running. I went to the window and looked outside to see Tish brushing her teeth.
Really.
I guess the Death Glare made her believe that if she used the bathroom for what it's supposed to be used for, I was going to kill her.
Really.
I tell you this story because it still makes me laugh to this day. I wasn't mad at her. I was working. She told everyone I was mad. Which made me look like Mommy Dearest in training because who makes someone brush their teeth outside? Really, what kind of messed crap is that?
Now, she may have been feeling guilty because she set one of my pans on fire when she was cooking a cheddar filled hotdog and then tried to bury the evidence. I found it later. And one thing that actually does piss me off is incompetency. Still wouldn't have made her brush her teeth outside.
Why did I share this? Because it makes sense now and it's even more hilarious than it used to be. But also because the extroverts of the world keep trying to "help" me. Please, for the love of Pete, stop. I'm fine. I don't need to be rescued or repaired. Yes, I'm weird. Yes, my personality probably freaks you out and makes you uncomfortable. I appreciate that you are trying to include me. But understand that I am just as happy sitting in the corner and watching everything
as you are being the center of attention.
Don't force me to be an extrovert. If I end up getting too stressed out (see: forced extroversion), I become a nightmare. And not the fun kind. The kind where I'm moody and emotional and I HATE EVERYTHING. When I tell you nicely to "back off." That is not code for "try harder." I don't speak in code. I think about what I want to say and then I say it. When you ignore the actual words that come out of my mouth, I lose any smidgen of respect I had for you at all.
Side note:
And if you see me in a coffee shop with my back to the room and headphones in, that is not an invitation to join me. I will make this face at you
Don't misunderstand. Occasionally there will be an activity that interests me and excites me and I will participate wholeheartedly. Again, my participation needs to be left up to me. But if you are boring or mean to people or a general dick, I probably won't want to spend time with you. Because I have learned enough about people (don't knock the corner sitting, it's very revealing), to recognize the ones I want to spend time with. Don't get bent about it, just find someone else to hang out with. No one should be expected to mesh perfectly with everyone else. I'm not a universal donor over here. I don't fit well with all types. I know that about myself and I'm okay with that. Stop trying to force us to mix. I', Red Bull and you're milk. I will make you curdle. It'll be gross for all involved. So stop forcing the issue.
I need new headphones.
And I need to write about these rock stars that I love.
If you've read this far, here's a bonus and rare reveal of feelings:
I write about musicians because I've known so many and I adore them. Truly magnificent people who made my life bright and loud and made me feel like less of a freak when I was with them. But maybe that's the nerd characteristic. The little gene in human DNA that not everyone is blessed with. If you are a nerd about something to the point of passionate obsession, I probably love you.
Am I a paradox? Yeah, actually I am. If you do your research you'll see that that's perfectly normal.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Deepest Blues TEASER ( Full Prologue)
Final teaser before Deepest Blues releases in less than a week! Pre-Order Links here!
Prologue
Cologne,
Germany
3
years ago
After all
of that.
Everything.
The secrets
kept.
The
promises made.
All that he
had done for her.
For them.
Mike pushed
his thumb and index finger into his eye sockets and breathed against
the pain. The physicality of the burn in his eyes was nothing
compared to the soul pulverizing drum of his pulse roaring in his
ears.
The
darkness was smothering. Or maybe that was his own thankless breath
that was killing him. His chest was heavy. Like someone had filled
the empty spaces between his ribs with lead. It was dragging,
pulling him forward. He hunched over his legs, letting go of his
face and allowing his head to hang unseeingly towards the floor.
It was
still too easy to breathe. He tried to squeeze the air from his
lungs, wondering at the brown edges around his vision. Wondering if
he could follow the pattern and figure out it's path.
He jolted
from his position when he heard someone walking down the hall.
He stood
slowly, listening for an indication of identity.
The suite
he occupied was massive, plush, beautiful. He had gotten it for her.
Just like the spray of blue cornflowers on the table by the entry.
Gifts. Distractions. Things to fill the void that threatened to
swallow them—him—whole. He'd known he was grasping, scraping
desperately at the fabric of his sanity. Or what was left of it.
It didn't
matter what gifts he threw at her, the words he promised, the images
he pretended weren't there. None of it mattered.
Nothing was
the same.
His heart
stuttered briefly and he wondered if maybe it wouldn't restart. That
would be okay, he decided. But then it continued beating and he
moved his attention back to the sounds in the hallway.
A soft
feminine laugh rippled through him, and, like an undertow, he was
pulled unwillingly to the door. The knob felt cold as he
acknowledged the easy way it fit in his hand, the lack of resistance
it gave him as he opened the door. Like it had conspired with the
universe to bring him to this moment.
The hall
opened up before him and his heart did the stutter again. Just as
the door across the hall from him was falling closed on Ilsa's long
porcelain legs, black skirt swishing just above her knee, her elegant
figure hooked around the waist by a man's arm. Her elongated neck
highlighted by the short and flirty cut of her iridescent blonde hair
tilted to the side as her head rested on the shoulder of...
Of course.
They'd
talked about this yesterday. At least, Mike was pretty sure it was
yesterday. He'd lost track of time when it had all happened. And
there wasn't a whole lot of talking. It was mostly Ilsa crying and
explaining, Mike realizing too late what she was saying. Something
about him being different. Or was it distant? He remembered
thinking how odd that one moment, one breath—or lack thereof, could
alter their lives so intensely.
Then
she'd left.
He
knew she wasn't coming back. Somewhere in his center, he just knew
that it was well and truly over.
Hadn't
it been over already, though? Hadn't he felt the distance for weeks,
maybe even months? Hadn't he seen her talking and laughing with
Sway? Laughing.
God,
he loved her laugh. He was going to miss that.
The
final moments, the death rattle of their love (in a very literal
sense now) came suddenly but not unexpectedly. They'd been
decaying for weeks. She'd finally put it to rest with her broken
words falling from her chapped lips.
He must
have stood in the hall for several minutes. He wasn't sure. But he
knew he had to do something.
She was
gone. And with his band mate—his brother—no less.
Mike wasn't
capable of living with that. Not an overly morose person, this
feeling of utter devastation and loss was foreign to him. Yes, he'd
been broken up with before; yes, he'd experienced the pain of a
relationship tearing apart like flesh ripping from bone. But
something about this moment was different. Something darker and far
more lethal was threatening to take over his mind.
His
thoughts skittered to the obvious solution. Though Ilsa had claimed
that his recreational substance use was what had pushed her into
Sway's arms, he now saw them as his only outlet. His only source of
control in this unfair and unpredictable world.
He wasn't
an idiot. He knew it wasn't his friend. He knew the risk. But
didn't all reward come with risk? He most definitely was acquainted
with the reward. The bliss of darkness, of calm. Like crashing into
a giant pillow and finding sleep.
He hadn't
slept in a week. How could he? All he saw was the accusing eyes of
the hospital staff. All he heard was the abundance of heartbeats in
his own chest and the lack of them in another.
His door
slammed shut on his right. He looked at it briefly, then slid his
phone out of his pocket, texting his contact on the crew who would no
doubt get him exactly what he needed.
He needed
to think. He could figure out how to be okay with all of this if he
could just find some time to think and plan. This would help. It
always helped. Made him feel connected to the bigger picture when he
was usually so wrapped up inside himself.
Besides,
the show wasn't until tomorrow. He had plenty of time.
This would
help.
That's all
he wanted.
Just a
little bit of help.
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