This is the end and some very nasty words will be said.

That's right. If you have sensitive ears, cover your eyes. (It's not like you'd be hearing this post--unless you read everything aloud--in which case you're a freak.) You have been warned. If you choose to read on, be it on your own head.

The first very foul word is head gasket. Well, that's two words--and anyone who brings that up will hear more filthy language. Anyone familiar with cars knows those two words don't come up when things are sitting pretty. No one says, "I bought this new car and the head gaskets are awesome." If you didn't shudder just a little when you read "head gasket" then you've clearly never had one blow or heard of the horror involved. The husband has narrowed it down to that.

He threw some car jargon at me about exhaust leaking from somewhere that it shouldn't be. He's the king of all mechanical in our house--I just am here for show. I'm the beauty--he's the brains. (Which is another scary thing considering I'm sitting here in scruffy pjs after a very late night.) If the husband can do it--which involves a lot of tearing into the engine and may require tools we probably don't have--it'll be $300. The husband is skeptical. I've come to realize that the husband can do anything--but the tools and time and frustration--that's a different story. In the shop--it'll take anywhere from $600-1500.

Cough* What? * cough

That's right. There is nothing like trying to come up with imaginary money in December. I've mentioned before how expensive raising two Autistic children is, but if you missed that--we're so much in debt that there is no relief in sight--and we're tapped out. There is no way on this earth or any other we can afford that.

Here is the next dirty word. Ready?

Bacterial infection. Okay. That's two words too. It's probably like serial killers--they require two word or three words/names to be truly evil. The husband went into Urgent Care last Friday because he had a bacterial infection in his chest. He's on antibiotics right now. It crept into my lungs yesterday. I couldn't lie down without coughing until the medicine finally kicked in. This morning--my throat feels wrong--really wrong. The plague is upon us.

This one is filthy and only one word. Theoretically, that should make it less evil if my above theory is correct.

Short. Honor Six's middle met my epilogue last night. I'd written the epilogue a long time ago, and I just connected it to the main plot. In theory, that means I've finished Honor Six. Before any rejoicing takes place, I'm only at 60K-- as in, at least, 15 K short of where it should be--and 20K shorter than the rest. It's a whopping 40K shy of Honor Among Thieves. Nightmare. I know that some parts need to be fleshed out. I burnt the midnight oil last night to blaze through the plot points. I think I finished at 2 am. Still--that is very, very, very short of where it should be. Nightmare. Nightmare. Horror.

The last foul word is both clean and dirty and my nemesis.

You know what it is--it plagues me. I even have nightmares about it. Laundry. I have clean clothes to put away. Dirty clothes to wash. Out-grown clothes to pack away for Heidi. Clothes. Clothes. Clothes. I hate it. It makes me want to go cry in a corner.

So, that's my sad Tuesday tale. We have no money for Christmas. We have a car that is about to suck our souls out--like a vehicular vampire. I'm coming down with something that is already easing into my weakened lungs. Honor six is short and her mother dresses her funny. Plus, there is always laundry. Damn laundry. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! A curse upon your growing family of outgrown jeans. A curse upon your stupid endless stray socks. A curse upon your towels that take ten years to dry in this damn cold, muggy weather. A curse upon that nasty, damp smell that you get if I leave you in the washer over night. I spit upon the fact that sometimes I must dry and rewash just to get that smell out. Do you hear me, Laundry???!!! I hate you more than anything!

Today sucks massive rocks. You were warned. If you read this post, you have only yourself to blame.

That is all.

Day Twenty-two-- Disgust, Despair, Dread, Depression, and Disturbed Diatribe

It's rare that I get depressed, but today I am that. It's not over anything specific and yet it's over everything.

EVERYTHING!

Dealing with this new issue with the car is frustrating. The husband has been trying to deal with it, and it just seems to be defying him at every turn. It keeps over-heating whenever it feels like it. I just really want everything around me to continue to function indefinitely. Is that so much to ask? We go through these months where I feel like we're hemorrhaging money--and having our car break down just before our annual big road trip to visit family--and just before Christmas. AHHHH! I just want to go scream into a pillow.

The husband is doing everything right and then some, but I can't seem to help feeling this way. It's like this pervasive sickness that no matter what I do--it's there. I've been sketchy on taking my OCD pills on time and maybe that's a little to do with it. (I don't suffer from depression while medicated or unmedicated unless I don't keep on schedule for my OCD pills.) Also, my husband lost my keys by accident--which also isn't a big deal until it's on top of everything else.

I bumped into someone who'd gotten my books from her daughter and she wanted to know where she could buy the Honor series because she had a lot of friends that wanted to read it, and she wanted to pass the books to them, but she couldn't. It should have made me feel good, but I just feel so stuck. Where do I go from here? What do I do with Honor? Where should I focus my time? I keep thinking that I need to sit down and get out some more queries on Honor, but I feel sacked every time I look in my inbox and see a rejection. Do I really want to deal with that so soon and right now? Nothing ventured is--but still... what if I don't feel like venturing right now? I don't feel like being rejected anymore. Honor is good. People LOVE Honor Among Thieves. Still, the thought of throwing her out to the wolves again fills me with dread.

Ugh. Then, here we are on Day Twenty-two, and I just don't know what to do about Scorched. Normally, I've finished and done a reread by now. What's wrong with me that I just feel so lost? I feel a little stuck over the ending. What am I doing with Scorched? Why do I keep getting nailed with the dreaded Writer's Block in regards to it? I can sense I'm about five thousand words from the end, but I just keep stopping every thousand words because I don't know where it's going. This isn't like me. I'm just so lost.

So, the normal solace I take in writing--is even frustrating.

Today in church we had a discussion about, of all things, the prevalence of profanity and moral decay in the media. Someone said, "What you permit--you promote," and my mom took me to task over profanity when she came to visit. It has me thinking and rethinking what profanity I do "allow" in my current bunch of books. Every time I write, I do so knowing that I'll be basically handing it over to a thirteen or fourteen year old stalker fan to read. Am I okay with the level of language in my books? So far, no one has said anything to me really, but it's just one more thing to think about--especially with Scorched being YA and having more than my usual amount of profanity due to who Scorch hangs out with every so often. (Auto shop guys don't use the cleanest language.)

Speaking of 'F' words:

I feel like a failure that I don't want to deal with queries right now. I feel like a failure because I don't want to clean right now. I feel like a failure because my kids are making me want to scream so frequently. I feel like a failure because I can't seem to write an ending to Scorched. We're stuck on a Sunday and I need to get to Friday. I just can't seem to fabricate four days of stuff. I can't get from Point A to Point B. There is no straight line! AHHHHH! Why? Why is there no straight line? There is always a straight line in my head.

So, I guess if we use the psychology of first and last on this post. I guess human nature has revealed that I'm most frustrated about my car and not being able to finish Scorched. That might be it. I don't know. The rest very well could be filler.

Anyway. This is more of a rant and a gripe than a post, but there you have it. I'm going to go eat frosting in front of the fire and hope for the ending to Scorched to slide into my head.

I hope, hope, hope, hope everyone is having a better weekend than me.

The horrible quagmire of guilt in the Seussian cycle

So, I was reading my banned book for the week. (The Lorax) After I'd finished, I looked up precisely why it was banned.

So, do you know?

The forestry industry felt like it was criminalizing them. So... I can see that I suppose. On the other hand, there is the fact that Dr. Seuss depended on the forestry industry in order to publish his books. So, I'm left wondering what Dr. Seuss was suggesting in regards to the truffula trees and my place in all of this. I want to be a published writer but not at the expense of those adorabe barbaloots in their barbaloot suits. Then... the swomee swans... and the humming fish. I see now that the only answer is to go strictly with e-book publishing to avoid becoming a greedy Once-ler. I'm pretty sure that is what Seuss would have wanted.

Then, I moved on to Yertle the Turtle... and really... I'm not Hitler, so that was mostly okay.

Wait, though... the Sneeches... and the Butter Battle Book....

No, I'm good with those too. It's really just the Lorax that I need to justify.

In reality, though, trees are renewable resources, and I do recycle.

Phew. Okay. Justified.

So, yes, I have started another book. I feel bad about it... honestly. I am in the process of proofreading Face of the Phantom, though... and I did tack on another chunk to Honor six. I went to hand off "Sheri's Tales" to my little teenage crazed fan and she asked excitedly, "HONOR SIX?" Okay... so... no. As she was the second person to ask me if I'd finished Honor Six, I felt particularly bad about starting another book, but this new book is eating into my brain, and I need to work on it so I'll be able to sleep. Sleep is very important and this new book is really cool.

Tomorrow is October. BOO! BOO! I'm hoping the husband hasn't noticed. I sooo don't want to get a lame job to pay off my lame bills. If I was going to be able to do something I enjoyed... that would be different, but I've been out of the workforce for so long due to the kid's needs. Ugh. I haven't even thought about making up a resume. Ick. Blech.

Tomorrow is picture day for the kids. I really should make sure they have clothes to wear. That reeks of work. I hate work. I hate laundry. Booooo! Booooo!

Who am I? What am I?

So, I saw another post from an editor's blog getting annoyed at the term "pre-published" when an author is describing themselves. I can understand where they're coming from... and yet... when people ask them what they do for a living, I'm betting they can say that they're an editor without people asking them, "So, have you edited anything I've heard of?" and then dismissing them when they say, "No."

As an aside, I have never used the term "pre-published" nor do I intend to... and yet....

The husband and I got into a "discussion" about the term "professional" in relation to writing a few weeks ago. I took the side of "anyone who puts a large percentage of their time into writing and has no other established career is a professional writer." The husband said that one must be paid before one can be called a "professional writer." I believe he also said they must make enough money to support themselves at it. I asked him, then, if Van Gogh was considered a "hobbyist artist" since he never achieved this? Perhaps... even an amateur? I pointed out that the word "profession" had as its root word "profess" so a "profession" would seem to imply "a calling, pursuit that one professes as one's primary endeavor." The husband disagreed and may have rolled his eyes. This "discussion" was somewhat resolved by a visit to the dictionary where one of the choices aligned close enough to my comments that the matter was dropped quickly by the husband. He probably thought I won on a technicality rather than accepting my side, though.

Still... I could prove it, but that doesn't mean I feel like I can call myself a writer... let alone a professional writer. The blank on my kid's school forms still gets "mother" and nothing more. There is this implication that you must have something to show for your writing in order to call yourself a writer. In fact, I'd say that you must be successful in order to claim the title... or that's the general perception anyway.

I think any of those falling in the "arts" have a hard time finding their defined roll. I think most others handle it by throwing the word "struggling" in front of. "Struggling" artist, "Struggling actor", "Struggling" musician... and so on. I think most people then redefine that title as "oh... so you're obsessed, but poor?"

This doesn't even address the fact that calling myself a writer seems pretentious... even in the eyes of others. I could spend twenty hours a day at it, but the question still is: Have you published anything?

So, let's return to the discussion of that filthy word... lucre:

If I channeled eight hours a day into a job at minimum wage (federally $7.25), then I could most likely assume at the end of a year to have made $15,000 before taxes. (Does anyone else find that disturbing?) I spend about that much time writing and rewriting. Let's assume... through a beautiful alignment of stars... I'm published and receive a nice advance of $10,000. It takes a year for my book to hit the shelves and for me to earn back that advance... and maybe receive the green light for another book. No one can survive on $10,000 for a year as their sole income... in fact... no one can survive on $15,000, but that's beside the point. Writer's Market lists the range of pay expected for a Fiction Novelist is $40,000 to $525 with $14, 203 being the average.

Am I a writer yet? No?

What am I?

Who am I?

Besides... does money even define our roles in life if we hate those roles?

If I get a job in order to deal with our debt, I can't see it being anything that I attach to my name. "Hi. My name is Wendy. I'm a fry cook."

Do you see what I'm saying?

WHEN AM I A WRITER? I shouldn't have to justify it if I'm eating, breathing, and sleeping the "profession." Yet....

I'm trying to think of any other "role" that requires this much justification for our existance. I know for a fact that when someone else tells me what they do... I don't ask follow-up questions in order to quantify their success. "Oh... you're a librarian? How much do you make? Are you part-time or full-time? Oh... you're a cook? Are you any good? What kind of class of food do you make? Oh... you work in computers? Yeah, but are you sub-contracting or do you get actual benefits?" Wait, though... "Oh, you're a writer? Have you published anything? Have I heard of anything you've written? No? Oh look... there is a librarian. I'm going to go talk to someone who actually has a fulfilling and "real" career in the literary world. Before I go, let me stamp "loser" on your forehead."

October is quickly approaching, and one thing I know for certain... I'm not going to feel like a writer if I attach "fry cook" to the end of my name. No matter what I say out loud when someone asks, "What do you do?" Even as I say "mother" and silently add "fry cook," I'll still be thinking "I once wanted to be a writer."

A big day of Meh planned

Well, I'm officially over my cold... other than an itchy throat. There was much rejoicing. This morning, I have yoga which will be followed by CLEANING in a major way. I'll probably finish listening to "The Ruins" so that I can verify that everyone appropriate dies. Then, I get to go hang out at Stephanie's for a while. Woo woo!

As far as writing goes... I'm over half-way through Honor Among Thieves in rewriting, and it's going well. I'm cutting out all the passive voice crap that snuck in. My goal is to finish it by Saturday and rewrite my query letter. Then, I'll send it off to two publishers and five agents. October is fast approaching. I got a letter from T's teacher listing me as a volunteer on Fridays in October, and the husband mentioned that it might interfere with my shift at McDonalds. He was smiling when he said it, so he didn't get his teeth kicked in.

I wish money grew on trees. Something B said last night... made me really wish we could afford to throw money at therapy still. We always wanted to try a type of therapy called RDI therapy. I just couldn't ever find the money. Plus, we were hemoraging money for therapy already. It makes me feel like a failure that I couldn't budget enough money for that... or for us to magically stay out of debt.

There is a short story that comes to mind frequently when I think of money problems. It's called "The Rocking Horse Winner" by D.H. Lawrence.

The Rocking Horse Winner

I'll snatch one bit from it:

And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-horse, behind the smart doll's house, a voice would start whispering: "There must be more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!"

The story ends... sad, but I try not to hold that against it. Anyway... with two kids in need of therapy... sometimes I feel like our house is haunted like that. The husband makes a really great salary, but debt has this way of over-coming all. I've decided that substituting words into a Jeff Goldblum quote is fun. From Jurassic Park (sort of- bolded are mine):

"If there is one thing the history of evolution has taught us it's that debt will not be contained. Debt breaks free, expands to new territory, and crashes through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously."

Well, that's my day... Jeff Goldblum and D.H. Lawrence. Consider yourselves culturified.

This is a post about something filthy....

Lucre. That's right. I said it. I'm not ashamed.

So, my SASE didn't come from DAW today. Their website states it could be four months or more, so this is well within what is to be expected. This is good... don't get me wrong. I don't want to get a big ugly rejection back. I might still receive something saying it's gone on to the next reader, so an envelope might not be horrific to see in the mailbox. A phone call, email, or envelope full of money would be better.

So... back to the discussion of that filthy word.

The husband and I have talked about me now that T is in first grade. Bills must be paid, and there are no kids at home. I put him off saying that I wanted to try actually earning money as a writer. So, I've got a deadline of October. If I hear nothing before October, writing gets the smaller burner and I work on getting a job. I'm thinking of going back into the optical profession (which would require some serious study, and I'd have to go in as an apprentice due to the state's requirements.) I'm also considering going into childcare or assisting at a preschool. This might help with the blow to my self-esteem that some aspects of being B & T's mother has been. (They're not affectionate, and it's not their fault. Most days... it's okay. Also, parenting a SN child is different and the husband has decided not to roll the dice with another child. Dealing with children that aren't on the spectrum might be nice. B just gagged and threw up on the floor. Sigh.)

The unfortunate side effect to not earning my share as a writer is the fact that I'd still need to write in order to sleep. I'm on the big mighty nasty beast of sleeping pills, but I can't take it for more than a few days in a row. My doctor isn't keen on me taking it at all to be honest, but it was taking Lunesta three or four hours to kick in... and even then... was it really the meds or was I just finally tired? All other sissy sleeping pills met the same effect.

So, I hoped that picking up running again would help with my insomnia. I've been on a long break from running. It hasn't helped yet, but it may take a little longer for exhaustion to kick in. I might also need to ramp up to six miles a day again before it helps. I accidentally fell asleep for around a half an hour earlier today. Napping is taboo among true insomniacs. When I only get a couple hours of sleep tonight, it'll be the wrist slap I deserve for getting horizontal. I know better.

So... this is all to say that I need to get some direction going soon if I'm to avoid the workhouse and not drive my insomnia to a higher plane. I'm planning out what to do about my current YA project. It has potential and it's the first time I've really thought that about something I've written. It seems like a much clearer audience and positive summation potential. Seriously, there is no hope for summing up the book I'm working on called, "Tables Turned." Every time I try to describe it, it sounds like gibberish. Of course, summation sometimes takes a back seat to hilarity anyway... which is why one of my books has the nickname "Cannibals are for kids."

I really ought to reapply myself to getting an agent. It just sounds so miserable. Besides, I want an agent that I can actually get along with and it seems like a lot of agents take life fairly seriously... which is something I avoid at all costs. Besides, I'm not trying to write the next great American novel. I have no aspirations to be the next Upton Sinclair or Edith Wharton... or whoever. I just like to tell stories. I like working on dialogue more than creating a masterpiece of social signifcance. Anyway, I have the feeling that tackling this agent business again might kill my soul. I never tried the Honor books, though, and that might make all the difference. It's hard to decide what should be my priority if I'm going to enforce this October deadline. If I cut out sleep entirely... than I can get it all done and possibly have a psychotic episode. I hate the details of the business. I feel as if getting an agent might require an agent. As if the dirty professional side to writing wasn't enough, I have a few other ideas beating around my brain for books but I'm forcing myself not to concentrate on them until its their turn. Okay... well... I did write down a fairly clever title for a book, but I'm really pushing it to the back of my mind.

How do writers only write a couple books a year? Don't they feel rushed and driven to find out what is going to happen to their characters? It's difficult for me to take a week off from writing and not to pull near all-nighters as I get near the end of a book. Plus, my characters insist, and I'm a puppet to their whims. Some writers must have lives... it's all I can guess, or maybe they like to get a little filthy something-something on the side (which is to say that they have money-earning professions that aren't writing.)

So, I was listening to my "The Ruins" audiobook while walking earlier, and it isn't looking good for one of the chicks. She got them into the mess they're in... unintentionally. Her intentions don't matter, though. She's toast. It's a strange sort of effect on our psyche that occurs while reading in the horror genre, isn't it? The violence needs to shock you and yet not be disatisfying. We're creepy little creatures in that a few qualifications to a character make their deaths seem a lot less upsetting. I don't know if everyone has the immediate justification take place after someone dies in fiction. First there is this gasp of "whoa... Person A is dead." It's followed by "I'm somewhat entertained and fascinated... that makes me a psychopath." Quickly, justification sets in, though, and I think, "Yeah... but this is fiction and besides Person A: got them into this, was whoring around, keeps kicking puppies, is old and lived a good life, is miserable and getting a divorce, doesn't have a full name, can't speak English, is sexist, is stupid, is impulsive...." There are a million different reasons that I can be okay with someone dying. Perhaps that's just me, though, and there will be awkward silence after this post among all my family.

Speaking of which, does anyone have that short story I wrote about the woman who kills her husband over the 2 % milk?