Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Sorry to disappoint on this hallowed nite!
We’ve places to be and people to fright.
This little black cauldron will offer you treats,
Just don’t try to trick it or you’ll get zero sweets.
p.s. We assume no liability for broken bones, bitten fingers or night terrors.
"Why?" his girlfriend asked, applying more black lipstick.
"They've left this cauldron full of candy on their front porch with a sign and they expect not to get robbed by the first group through."
Blake watched the streetlights turn on one by one. They were planning on hitting a few haunted houses, but a bunch of his friends hit houses like the Monroe's first.
"They are freaky, but not for that," she said as she outlined her eyes with a thick black line.
"What do you mean?"
"They're not actually gone," she said.
"What? They are. Their giant boat of a car is gone. The lights are off."
"Their kids tried to have them both sent to an old folk's home. Both of them are out of their minds and up the tree."
"So, they're inside the house?" Blake asked, squinting at the darkened windows.
"No, they're up the tree with four dozen eggs--at least. They'll pelt anyone who tries to steal extra candy. For being in their eighties--they're great shots."
A group of teenagers walked up to the front door and took handfuls of candy. Blake had opened Kat's bedroom window to listen. Their screams, as eggs flew from the tree, made him laugh.
"I think we should stick around until it's darker, Kat," Blake said as he saw some of his friends approaching the house.
asked the fairy, pretty and nice.
"What would you know?" I had replied,
measuring her wings, three bites wide.
"Should I sleep in winter white with snow
and awake in Spring, ready to grow?"
"Where will you sleep, my pretty sweet?"
I licked the air, wanting to eat.
"There in the glade in the old dry tree,
others will join me, plenty room free."
"Haste ye there, my plump little fly,
winter's upon us, and the frost is nigh."
"Or perhaps I'll go off, fly to the south,"
She swiftly added, tapping her mouth.
"Nay to sleep. It's sleep you must."
Tasty wee fairies were known to trust.
"It's as you've said, dear Spider friend.
Plenty of winter for wings to mend."
A flap of wings, and the slightest trip,
my pincers so longed to tear and rip.
Wait, my love, wait for more,
One fairy gone means friends in store.
“Careful," I warn. "I bite you know.
Off you fly--here comes the snow."
Closer I creep to the old glade tree,
here they come, more fairies for me.
Fairies in a row, all bundled up neat.
Fairies all for me--a Christmas treat.
Looking at his watch, he acknowledged that this was much longer than he'd ever been required to wait for contact. Plus, this was a hole compared to what he was used to. You couldn't even get a decent martini for a mile. He'd have to go back to his hotel and wash the stink of humanity off him.
Plus, they'd been having a laugh at him when they sent him here in a tux. Not that he didn't tell everyone he ran into his name, but this was highly irregular to be so inconspicuous beforehand. If anyone was going to blow his cover it was bloody well going to be him. That was what he did!
He sipped the water. Swill! His water tasted like the glass had been boiled clean in his soup.
Plus, they'd never said how they'd be giving him the contact information. He'd unscrewed the salt and dumped all that on the table only to find the shaker empty. Damn and blast.
Normally, a pretty young bit of legs would escort him to a "special" table, but not tonight. No, the woman was far older than Moneypenny and fancied herself a cougar at eighty. She'd patted his rump before he sat down.
There was nothing on the placemat or the napkin. For all he knew, this was it. A wild goose chase.
Gently, he belched. He'd have gas later on. What had been in that soup? It was probably something's testicles. Yak testicles. Goat testicles. Snake testicles. Did snakes have testicles? Everything did. Pull yourself together, man.
They were probably watching him. He glanced around. If any of these other chaps were agents, they'd lowered the requirements for both hygiene and fitness. A few of the ladies were a possibility, but hopefully he wouldn't have to bed them. Well, no, he never had to, but that's what he did. That was who he was. He had sex indiscriminately.
Bother. This was just outside of enough. He wouldn't wait more than another quarter of an hour. They could simply contact him at the hotel--maybe he could find a frisky maid in the meantime.
The cougar brought him the cheque with a fortune cookie. He suspected that was her phone number on the top of the cheque and not any attempt at contact from the agency. He'd call it, but hopefully, he wouldn't have to play out the charade. He did discriminate--at times.
This was probably because he'd wrecked the last Aston Martin before he'd even found out how the missiles worked. The Russian had climbed on his lap, and she handled her curves better than he had. In all fairness, the maneuverability just wasn't up to snuff. Besides, he'd gotten some rather wonderful information that time--not for the agency, but he'd never really seen a girl be able to do that with both legs.
Ahh... the fortune cookie. Of course. They'd used this trick before. Clever. Opening it, he was forced to admit, "Well played, Q. Well played indeed." The GPS coordinates were there and the rest was as good as a signature.
"The greatest danger could be your stupidity."
He'd take that under advisement. Plugging the GPS in, he saw he'd be headed near the Sudan. His stomach protested the thought of flying right away. He belched again. Perhaps a few alka-seltzer--shaken--not stirred.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Above is one of my "goofing around with my new touch screen" pictures done with Paint. (I had Photoshop on my normal computer, but that computer fried. C'est la vie. It's minimalistic to have to work with a program meant for so little use. Yeah. That's it.)
I received awards from both Julie and Natalie this week. Actually, the same award. I think if they both agree it MUST be true, right?
1. Copy the Kreativ Blogger picture and post it on your page.
2. Thank the person that gave the award to you and link back to their blog.
3. Write 7 things about you that we don't know.
4. Choose 7 other bloggers that you would like to give the award to.
5. Link to the bloggers that you chose.
6. Let your winners know that they have the lovely award.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue ribbon for his biggest pumpkin next weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the other town folk, especially that pretty, stuck-up woman next door, who always looked through him, not at him.
The cold wind started again and he shivered, watching the sky darken too quickly. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward an infant's cry. At the top of the hill, under the old Maple, his stuck-up neighbor was shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse...
Here is my story:
The Pumpkins are Wrathful
Joad stroked the pumpkin that was his pride and joy. He crouched, gazing across his field of fine crops that migrant workers had tended during the long hours under the baking sun. He was obsessed… driven, but it would all be worth it to see his pumpkin… HIS pumpkin… take first prize. His neighbor, Ms. Rose… once Mrs. Rose, would be impressed. She’d regret her snide remarks. What would she do when he won? Her husband was dead. She needed a protector. He could be that man.
As the sun was setting, a second sun slid high above the hills casting a green hue across the land. He ignored it. That was to be expected. She’d never given in without a fight. It was part of what he liked about her. Her fiery temper was hot and slick, and he had no doubt more would be coming.
A cold wind started. It blew painted leaves across the ground. They were purple. He ignored them too. Perhaps, he should have gone with a vineyard. No… too obvious. Besides, he liked the metaphor of the pumpkin and size. Hopefully, she would go along with that.
An infant’s cry pulled his gaze to the maple that separated their properties. Mrs. Rose… no… Ms. Rose was there fumbling with her blouse as she held a bundle against her chest. Would she do it? Some part of him was… well… disappointed that she’d given in so easily.
Then, the alien child burst from her chest snarling.
Joad sighed. Perhaps, he could ignore this too, and she’d get back into character momentarily.
The alien child scrambled up her chest and began choking her. Rose fell to the ground, writhing, and making gurgling noises.
“End Theater Simulation,” he called, standing up. Rubbing his face, Josh walked toward Ellie in the large green screen theater. His footsteps echoed against cyber mural screens on all sides which pulsed in anticipation. “Ellie… what the hell was that? We agreed it was my turn to pick the play this Friday. My turn.”
She stood up and smoothed her lycra suit down. “You went too far, Josh.” Gesturing down at herself, she said, “These breasts are not feeders. They’re perfect just as they are. Plus, don’t think I didn’t know where you were going with that. Rose? She was the chick at the end of Grapes of Wrath that ends up breastfeeding that old guy. I’m not playing out this sick fantasy of yours just so you can get your rocks off over Steinbeck.”
“I was King Arthur last Friday.”
“No… you were Lancelot,” she said, raising an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. “Lancelot gets the girl in the end, remember?” Ellie crossed her arms over the aforementioned breasts and smiled. Tossing her shoulder-length black hair, she took a few steps forward. Damn… but she looked good in lycra. Hot… very hot. She pressed her mouth against his briefly before stepping back. “Well, lover, it’s your choice. I’m telling you now, though, that this Joad fellow will not be getting Ms. Rose. I knew that from the moment my stage directions hung in front of me with that whole breastfeeding business.”
“It was a symbolic metaphor,” he said defensively.
Ellie grinned. “As was your pumpkin’s size. Yes… I know.” Coughing, she commented, “That pumpkin was exceptionally large, Josh.”
“Yeah… it was,” he admitted, grinning too. Then, he sighed and asked, “If I cut the breastfeeding business?”
She shrugged, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rubbed her body against his. This was why she won all their arguments. Her date plays typically were much more exuberant than his. He liked that vitality about her.
“You’re not really going to make us go to a State Fair, are you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I seem to remember your pigs and horses actually have a very realistic odor. I don’t know how or why you do it.”
“It’s the experience…. It’s supposed to be like real life,” he complained. He prided himself on that aspect of his simulated play. It should be realistic. Sound effects were always slightly over-blown, but that seemed acceptable in his mind.
“Josh…,” she whined.
He relented as he always did. “Okay… no Fair. I want to keep the pumpkin, though.”
“If you need that as a… prop.” Ellie rolled her blue eyes and smoothed the lycra down her body again. She looked so great in green. Glancing up, she caught him admiring her, and a sly smile slid across her face. “Okay… no breastfeeding and give me a name that doesn’t make me feel downtrodden.”
“No one would dare trod you down.” Josh smiled and rubbed a hand through his light hair as he rethought the play. He wanted a classic. Moby Dick maybe? He thought of her comments on the pumpkin. Maybe not. He put his hand to the earpiece and pressed the ‘record’ button. The field spun around them as before, though it was drier and a faint smell of smoke hung in the air.
She was dressed in a lacy, scarlet gown that she looked over fastidiously.
He was dressed in a riding uniform, and an enormous black horse grazed nearby. In back of them, a beautiful white plantation house scrubbed the sky. In deference to his girlfriend, he made the horse unscented. Hopefully, she appreciated this as it was definitely a compromise on his theatrical principles.
“Ahh… I see our metaphorical pumpkin made the jump,” she said, looking down at the giant pumpkin.
She tapped one of her pale fingers against her red lips. If she saw more of the actual sun, she might not be so pale. She was beautiful, regardless. He saw the moment the script he’d built in his mind hung in the air between them. Scrolling her eyes through the words that only she could see, Ellie tilted her head, considering.
Hopefully, she approved, but frankly… he didn’t give a damn.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
So, in real life, I have Honor out with several agents and then Re: Straint out with one. Last night, I had my first writerly dream. I dreamt I woke up and went to check my email immediately.
"Gasp! No, Wendy! The horror! The horror!"
Wait for it! I check my email every day. That's not the scary part. I was just building suspense.
So, in my email box is this email with an attachment that I open up. My entire screen turns blue--like a robin's egg type of blue. It's this light, sad, pathetic blue. I scroll down to find the following note (in a font that is red and looks type-written) :
Thank you for sending me an excerpt from your manuscript. Unfortunately, while your idea is unique and interesting, your writing is bad and will take a lot of work to make it acceptable. Please send us the rest, and we'll decide whether a rewrite is possible or whether we'll have one of our own authors write your story.
I think they also mentioned something about my characters and plot being really good. (After all, it's not them... it's me.) I thought, "What do I do? Do I drastically rewrite the whole thing? Is it okay to just sell the 'story and characters?'" I was torn whether to feel happy or sad or what? How do you deal with, "You suck as a person, but you hang out with nice people and stumble upon greatness?"
I woke up, startled, and had this full-on Ebeneezer Scrooge moment when I realized that I hadn't received this email. "It's not too late!!! Merry manuscripts to one and all!" It was horrible anxiety and conflict followed by intense relief.
I've been feeling a little anxious about my current queries. (I mean... not that you'd guess it from that dream.) I'm not sure whether to just be patient or whether I should send out more queries or what. I'm discouraged. There isn't a direct link and possibly not a reason to be, but I'm still discouraged.
My kids are currently watching Pink Panther, and wow... some of these are acid trip strange.
Okay, I need to buckle down and work on a WIP. Buckle down. Really.
Wow. Seriously. I feel like I need to wake up while watching this Pink Panther. I'm pretty sure this is another dream. It's like the whole "Pink Elephants on Parade" from Dumbo all over again. Okay... for your viewing psychosis: "Pink Outs." You can watch it and share in the strange experience of your brain going numb like an ice cream headache followed by a lobotomy.
Well, it's over, but my train of thought has derailed and gone screaming into an embankment where it exploded and there were no survivors.
I should go find a WIP to actually work and progress on.
I will say that I'm going to scale back on my WIPs and drawer two of them, because I think having so many available is making me struggle with completing any of them. I've been working on "Versus the Bounty" the most lately. I've hit a snag with the Chosen Changeling. I like the concept, but it's not flowing clearly. October is a rough month for me. I'm allergic to mold spores, so October and April seem to kick my tail, so I'm either sleeping because I can't breathe or wide awake because I took something that keeps me from sleeping. It's a lack of mediums. It's Friday, so I sort of wanted to take a sleeping pill, and maybe I still will. I was hoping to get more writing done. I need to complete one of these WIPs. My brain feels a bit foggy from allergies.
Honor Six is struggling because I know the end and I'm half-way through... I just don't know the part I'm at. I started writing backwards from the Epilogue with the intention of writing the whole thing in reverse. I hadn't gotten very far when I realized that I didn't know the previous chapter's emotions. So, I can't write it completely in reverse. I might need to start near the end--near where I know what happens and write forward again. Writing chapters in reverse order sounds nuttier the longer I think about it anyway.
Ugh. Maybe I'm just not fond enough of any of these stories to drown myself in them. I certainly have liked writing portions of Honor Six. I love Honor. She kicks such butt. Oh! Oh! The voice of Speedy in the Honor books in my head is Christian Slater's. He looks a little like him, too... in my head. (Let's just be clear--I don't think of Christian Slater ALL the time. special occasions and holidays, but not ALL the time.) I should be able to figure out Reeve's voice because it's so distinct in my head. Hmm.
Okay. So, here is your empty post if you have anything you want to get off your chest. "Get off your chest" not "show off your chest" just to be clear. Let's not make it awkward. The awkwardness comes later.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sean is freaking brilliant in his posts and illustrations.
Speaking of illustrators... I find this guy inspiring.
Oh... and check out this blog's comments on Confessions of a Novel Mommy.
Well, okay, and check out this blog's post. It's full of awesomeness.
While I'm at it--I'm admitting to places I lurk.
There is cute overload. It's disgustingly cute, tongue-in-cheek humor, and make sure you check out the hover text.
Literary Lab has the most awesomest roller coaster picture ever... and a contest going on.
Plus, of course, I've been keeping up-to-date on the latest word in the way of adverbs.
Sean also mentioned on his blog how truly cool J.K Rowling's site is. Have you been there?
The husband found this site, and while it's not literary... it totally is. Plus, it's fun.
Okay. Phew. There you go. I've found a bit of perfection for all of you, so you don't have to hunt across the internet for it yourself. You're welcome. (Actually, all of the blogs I follow are exceptionally cool. You should just stalk them along with me.)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I realized that I had different voices for nearly every story I write, and sometimes, for each character. I thought everyone did. Even my third person books are like that... the narrators are definitely not me in most cases. When I read books, it's the same way... lots of different voices.
For example, Charlie from the first Sarah book is totally Dermot Mulroney. I don't know why or how, but he is. Each of the Sarahs has a different voice and, despite what my family might think, Seattle Sarah, who has OCD, sounds nothing like me in my head. Meg's voice is definitely, 100 percent, Catherine Zeta Jones. May's voice, in one of the books I'm currently writing, is Kate Reinder's (an audiobook reader.) The Master's voice in the Honor books is James Marsters (Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.) Many of my books, the third person narrator is Johanna Parker who narrated the Mediator series of audiobooks. I can't pin down most of the other characters as easily, though. I suspect many of them are narrators of audiobooks that I've listened to, but I could be wrong.
So, only one character in all the books I've written has my voice... and it's strange to me that she does. Honor. Honor is the only character that has my voice. I think that's why that series of books I've chosen to write more than just one book using the exact same main character. (For those unfamiliar with the Sarah books... it's different main characters in each one... though they're linked and several have the name Sarah.)
Anyway, it got me thinking this week about the voices in my head... and not just in a worried way.
Hey, I'm thinking of getting rid of Twisted Tuesday since you already get slammed with my writing on Flash Fiction Friday. Thoughts?
First of all, HAPPY CAPS LOCK DAY!
So, today is one of those days, CAPS LOCK ASIDE, when I realize that I will never write non-fiction. When I was in the thick of our fight against Autism, everyone suggested that I write a book about what was happening and how life was. When my children became high-functioning, I put aside thoughts of that. The last thing I wanted was for people to know them as the children "that book" was about. It's a fine line you walk with the rest of their lives. B is over seven which means the insurance companies consider her beyond hope for neuro-developmental therapy. We could go back to the doctor and have her "diagnosis removed" because she wouldn't qualify for it today. We could also have her diagnosis dropped from her school records, BUT that would harm her chances for a normal life rather than help it. B is not cured. In fact, I'm doubtful that there is a cure, at this time, for Autism despite what celebrities and others might think.
The other reason that I'll never write non-fiction is because of T. T is having an "off-day" today. Yes, he has a stomach ache, but I finally figured out what is going on. T is very sensory sensitive, and he is in severe overload today. When he gets this way, he does two things: He cries a lot, and he becomes violent. I had to go warn T's teacher today that he might become violent and, if anything happens, to call me. T kicked most of the walls in our house this morning. He also punched things and threw things and screamed. I should have recognized this yesterday when he was head-banging against a wall (which is rare) and beating up on his sister for no reason (even more rare.) Most of the time, T takes out his aggression solely on me. He becomes so violent that it's involved a doctor's visit once for me. The sad thing is that he can't control it. He needs controlled sensory input. I also figured out why he refuses to go into the school store (which is B's favorite place.) It's too loud and small.
I used to cook, but I don't anymore. The reason being that B eats a very, very specific diet centered around bread and bread-like items. I can't make a recipe the same way twice. I can't handle repetitive behavior (I know... it's strange for someone with OCD, but OCD is not predictable.) Five years ago, I loved cooking. I loved making new and strange things. B has killed cooking for me. Each day, I'm forced to make her a peanut butter and honey sandwich for lunch. Every day. For three years now, she's eaten the same school lunch every day. Forcing myself to do something that repetitive is pure torture for me. Sometimes, the husband does it for me before he leaves, and that's why he is the best husband in the world. We've tried having B make her own sandwiches, but that just seems to insure that we're late for school every day. B is very... slow and sure about some things. Her dinner options are dinosaur chicken nuggets, noodles, pancakes/waffles, tacos (maybe-crunchy, no cheese), and a peanut butter sandwich. That's it. Those are her dinners. Repetitive. The husband cooks most of the time to avoid my eye lid going into permanent twitch-mode. I used to love cooking, but I don't anymore.
Having said all that, I'm used to this. I get by. I'm good. I'm not unhappy. It's about adapting, and we've adapted. Our family dynamic can be funky since we're working around a family full of issues. (Well, the husband is normal--though geeky to the extreme.) The husband has had to do the most adapting, I suspect, but he does it without complaint. He works around my OCD's demands, B's OCD and Autism, and T's Asperger's and sensory issues. If anyone has the right to complain, the husband tops the list. He doesn't, though.
So, this is my non-fiction life. I think that's why writing fiction is so imperative to me. I need to control something while burying myself in fantasy. I like creating fallible characters who still get things done and are happy. I need that. It's quiet, and it's just about the voices in my head. I even find violence therapeutic at times. It's awful, but there is also reason and resolution.
In my non-fiction life, the laundry never ends. B has been eating the same things for her entire life despite the therapists attempts to broaden her diet. T walks a fine line between enough sensory input and too much. The husband is tripping over so many issues that it's a wonder he is sane. Nothing ever ends. There is no resolution. I wake up each day knowing that accomplishing anything is just a temporary thing. The house won't remain clean. There will be another peanut butter sandwich to make tomorrow. The debt from therapy and doctors will still be following us. My life is an open-ended book with no chapter breaks that sometimes loops like a bad choose-your-own adventure.
It's not a bad life. This isn't a complaint so much as a commentary and maybe an explanation for why I am the way I am and why I write the way I write. There will be no non-fiction book in my future, and I'll need to write a chapter today of something thoroughly fictional. I'll need to crawl inside someone else's head and find their happy or unhappy ending. It's an insane sort of sanity.
I don't know how to end this other than to say: The End.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
T was told that unless he is projectile vomiting on his classmates--he was not to come home.
Well, yesterday, I discovered that my mother is too busy to read this blog, so I can basically say whatever the hell I want without fear of repercussions. BAWAHAHA! It sort of takes the fun out of mild profanity--I won't lie. Still, better in the blog than in front of the impressionables.
So, I've been working on Honor Six again. For those that are curious and intend on hounding me for the information, Honor and Reeve get married in Honor Seven, "Honor Bound." I think. I'm still trying to figure out the placement of "Maid of Honor," though. Luckily, while I didn't get to sleep until 2 am, I went right to sleep then instead of staying awake until four am. I need to focus on writing until I get enough sleep. Rewrites may have to be put aside.
So, last night, I went to pick up one of my OCD meds, and it wasn't until I'd opened it up to take one outside that I realized they were purple. I've been on the same meds for five years now. (Yes--it's a little sad, but thus is OCD.) These pills are, and have always been, pink. Back to the pharmacy I went. The Tech looked at me like I was nuts for complaining about my random pill sample.
I have OCD--obsessive--compulsive--what part of "you can't just throw pills in a cylinder and expect me to be okay with it" did he not understand?
Luckily, he realized immediately he was outgunned and dealing with the irrational and called for reinforcements. The pharmacist came over.
"Would you like us to make sure you have the right pills?" he asked.
Wendy's jaw dropped open. No. Yeah whatever. Slap some tic tacs in a container and that should be fine. Of course I wanted him to check.
"I've been on these pills for FIVE years, and they've always been pink," I explained.
He looked it up while examining the pills. I can see the "humoring the crazy person" going on, but I chose to ignore it.
Crazy people have rights too.
"You've always been on these pills, and they've always been that color," he said.
I laughed, because it was ludicrous. Seriously? They should have a note that pops up in my computer file while flashing "OCD" in big block letters. I think even people not obsessed with "sameness" would have noticed the color difference, though. Then, I gave him the look that said, "Go peddle your crazy somewhere else because we've already got our share."
"Let me look up the manufacturer," he suggested.
Yeah. Do that.
"Oh... that's it. This is from a different manufacturer--that's all."
My eyebrows raised. Could I let this go? Purple pills instead of pink? Would I spend the entire supply wondering if I'd been "had?" (The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, I would.)
The pharmacist cleared his throat and said, "We don't have any control over what they send us."
Crap. I brought my lame purple pills home, and I'll be forced to take them, but I won't be happy. Purple... not pink... purple. Oh, and because he had managed to make me think I was crazy, I looked at my empty RX bottle's pill description. Pink. They were pink. Different manufacturer, but they were pink. Lies--all lies. I can't believe he tried to tell me that they'd always been purple. Sell your crazy elsewhere, buddy--we're full.
There--just in case you ever have a strong desire to create an insane character. That's your dose of the reality of a person with OCD. It's a cold, cruel world filled with bastards trying to pass off damn purple pills on you.
(See--it's truly not as fun without suspecting my mother would be offended.)
In other news, my heel looks better today. Running would involve also swimming today, but I've done it. We'll see how I feel after yoga.
BTW, I should get going.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
First, I have T home again! He went to school, but the school called home because he has a "stomach ache" and he's home again.
I told him I was proud of him for going to school with a tummy ache and he said, "No... I have a STOMACH ACHE not a tummy ache."
"So, what? You have a more mature and sophisticated version of sickness, T?"
He rolled his eyes. (Keep in mind... he is six. The boy has drama and angst.) "No, a tummy ache feels like bubbles and wiggling inside. A stomach ache is painful."
See... this is why arguing is difficult.
Secondly, I won't be able to run today because he is home--regardless of whether or not I should.
Thirdly, I had things to do.
Fourth (ly) I now have an even number of followers, and I'm relying on you, who know that I don't care for even numbers, to keep those numbers odd at all times.
Finally, I can't figure out which one of my WIPs to work on, and I'm losing sleep over it. I barely slept at all last night again. I'm so tired.
So, now... you're thinking, "Wendy, it's odd to hear so much whining out of you." Or... maybe you're not surprised, in which case, you should lie.
This was meant to illustrate one of the key points to effective dialogue as taught to us by human nature. I once was an opitical manager and a brilliant man, the doctor I worked with, once said, "When you're listening to people's concerns and complaints, it's important to listen to the first and last thing they say. The rest of it is often filler." After I learned this lesson, it became so much easier to focus on what a person was saying vs. what they meant.
I'm passing this wisdom along to you as a lesson in creating effective dialogue. There needs to be filler. Conversations have plenty of filler crap. Still, the points that your characters feel strongly about should be in the appropriate spots.
For the record, the even number thing is bothering me and as a bonus lesson in human nature---you should also remember that people often down-play the importance of their faults and foibles with humor or sarcasm. Plus, drawing attention to flaws is often a cathartic process frequently used--especially by women. I would guess at some point that most women will admit to drawing attention to a blemish on their face. "Look! I have this gigantic zit on my face." Everyone looks, because they've been given permission. It feels like you've acknowleged it as a flaw and therefore downplayed it's importance.
There. You're now on your way to more effective complaining on paper. Congrats. The world is yours.
Now, someone else follow me because this is really chapping.