Things you may not know...

Did you know that it is actually possible to make your tongue peel if you eat too many Sweet Tarts? I wish I was lying.

Writing Space

I could not ask for better parents as a writer. Last June, my parents sat me down to have a heart to heart. They felt that I was wasting my "talent" and that I should really work hard on my writing because it "is marketable." I expressed my own problems with this. It's easy to say that I need to focus on my writing. However, my house is crazy. My parents run a business out of the bedroom next to mine. That means that my room is never quiet enough to write in. They also like to play this game called, "Let's Only Talk When We're in Seperate Rooms" which gets really annoying when you are trying to concentrate. Finally, any time I get into a really good swing, they order me to do something.

I love my parents and I don't mind helping out but that makes it really hard to "focus" on my "writing."

My awesome mother's solution? "Maybe we shuld get you a desk and put it down stairs." Now, I have to admit, I avoid said desk. The basement is usually very cold and it always smells like cat pee. The desk itself is massive and 90sesque. I have done my part to make it seem like home. I picked up a bottle of Fabreeze and some tea lights, that go in my cute little duck candle holders, for the smell. I put out the duck candle holders and a little witch candle holder. I have tried. But I'm not allowed to put out anything else because "people will see it."

The other day I went downstairs to play pool. I glanced over at the desk corner and sighed. My mother, who has taken to vending at Red Hat events, had piled hats and head bands on it. Under it was a huge box of stuff. I felt bad. I haven't done as much as I should.

This morning, I moved Mom's stuff and lit the tea lights. For a half hour, which was all that I could fit in before work, and I edited. It was actually pretty nice.

You know what they say: Butt+Chair

Life, Death, and Writing

My life, as of late, has been steeped in death. First, my uncle. Then, a boy who I knew from school. (That was a pretty touchy one, a suicide that left me sleepless.) After that, my best friend who is like a sister, her grandfather died. Then an aunt. When we got home from her memorial service last night, my Dad's cousin called. Another relative, I guess me second cousin, passed away last week.

Now, previously, I was having issues with death. You know, ISSUES. But all of this death has brought a lot of things to light. Actually, you know what has helped me the most? I kid you now, it was the Sci-Fi channel series Ghost Hunters. Anyway, all of this death has me thinking...

Previously, I was writing a book about a girl who died. It was a vital part of the story. That was how the story came to me. "This is about a girl who dies." But I ended up changing the whole thing aorund until it was a completely different story.

As an author, I think that it is important to face fears, even if it is just facing them in writing. So, I am going to write the book that was meant to be written. Thoughts?

A question of character....

Okay, this is a kind of personal post. (They all are, aren't they? I mean, I have a big mouth.)

I have a confession. I was the fat girl.

I started gaining weight when I was 8. Third grade was a horrible year in which I started at a new, larger school, had a witch for a teacher, and was informed that I was "special" because I was a slow reader. The term "special" still bothers me to this day.

The real problem was junior high. In junior high, at age twelve, I ballooned right up. I know, I know. "Baby fat," right? WRONG. A decent excuse would be that I was about to shoot up to super model heights and graduate from my training bra. The problem with this theory? I was and am a whopping 5'2" which looks incredibly charming in a size 20. I also graduated from my training bra when I was 7. In fourth grade, my chest was the talk of the class when a girl shouted at me to get my "big b**bs" out of her face. I heard about little else for a month.

That's right, but eighth grade, I was a size 20. By size 20 I mean that my 18's were digging so deep into my gut that it was uncomfortable to sit through class but I suffered rather than go up a size. I also mean that I used my period to get out of gym class every day. The worst part were my friends. I started junior high with a group of what I thought to be gorgeous, cool friends. Jenny, who had long shiney brown hair and arms and legs like sticks. Alicia, a gorgeous blonde with the body of a 16 year old, ditzy but adorable. Amanda, who was the star of every hallway show, pug nosed, skinny, and fun. They loved me. They loved me because I was the butt of their jokes. When I was sad that boys would not go out with me, they created a secret admirer for me. Only, they told everyone that they were the secret admirer.

I finally got a boyfriend, a chubby boy that I will refer to as J1. J1 and I spent hours on the phone together. We watched The Wizard of Oz while we talked 0nce. We sang along. He never kissed me and would not hold my hand at school, only when we were in the park or with our families. When he broke up with me, I learned that it was all a joke. One of our friends dared him to date me. Happily, he ended up actually liking me. Saddly, he dumped me because he was embarrassed to date the "fat girl."

I lost my first 15 lbs before nineth grade. I felt great about it. Losing weight, for me, was like watching success. Each pound I lost was a number I could count, was a change I could see. I dumped my crappy friends during eighth grade for another set of girls I sometimes hung out with. Sarah, skinny and blonde and quiet. Janae, the jock. Melissa, who read as much as I did and spent hours on the phone with me. They noticed how nice I was looking and always made sure that I felt cared for.

In high school, I began to notice. Boys came and went, I chased the ones that didn't want me and tolerated the ones that did. Every relationship was tainted with that first one, though. If I liked him enough to date him and he liked me enough to date me, it must be a joke. Who wants to be the fat girl? And the people who weren't friends with me didn't notice the change. They called me Jobba the Hut and teased that no one would go to the dances with me. I shrank. I shrank some more. By 16, I was down to 150 and a size 11. I was comfortable. I felt beautiful. I started dating J who didn't let me think that it was all a joke. I shrank some more. Jason noticed that something wasn't right and he talked to me about it. I shrank some more. I kept shrinking.

By the time I was 20, I was a size three. If you saw my family, you would know that I should never be a size three. I can't say how I got that small. All I can tell you is that people around me tell me it wasn't healthy. I stayed small for a very short time, maintaining it by drinking until I was sick on a regular basis. Now I am a healthy size 8/10. I work out 6 days a week for about an hour each day. I try to maintain a healthy diet (but fail constantly because I love food).

Why am I telling you this in a writing blog? I have noticed that weight is a very difficult subject for me to touch on in my writing. It is at the very core of my being, something I know all too well. I could write a killer YA about dealing with weight issues. But I won't. Most of my characters are effortlessly thin. Once I attempted a heavier character but I was afraid that I couldn't do it justice. I want to make a fat girl who is cool and fun, not the kind of fat girl I was.

Does anyone else have this problem? I don't want to present characters as toned down versions of myself...

Reasons I Hate Computers...

I have come to the conclusion that I hate computers, specifically lap tops.

When I bought my last laptop, I got it from Best Buy. I spent $1100 on it. I had $1150 available on my credit card. It was vital that I buy it because my last laptop needed a new motherboard which was only $500 but the exact same laptop was on sale for $500. Like any good Polish girl, I upgraded. Then, they told me that I had to purchase my own back up CD, which came with my last computer, for $200. I didn't buy it. I was insulted. I raved about it.

Last summer, a year after the purchase, my computer cleared itself. It was a nightmare. Lucky, I had a lot of stuff on disc or thumb drive because I don't have a printer for my laptop and i print stuff on my dad's computer. Still, I lost all of my Sim games and a large chunck of writing, as well as all of the songs I had purchased off iTunes. My cousin, a computer genius, made a new back up CD for my and fixed the computer.

Saturday I was having a horrible morning. I sobbed a lot. I decided to check my e-mail, see if anyone had sent me something to cheer me up. I turned on my computer. It was doing the same damn thing as last year....

So, here I am, without having anything new backed up. I've lost three years of MP3's. I've lost two half written novels. The only copy I have of the one I'm editting is a hard copy. The real heart ache came when I realized that I had lsot three years worth of my reading list. The novels are still in my head, only they are better. The books on that list, I may never see them again.

The lesson: Save everything to a thumb drive or two...