Who Doesn't Love an Antagonist?

My villian showed up today.

Thank God.

Until he walked up out of the shadows, my work in progress was going swimmingly. Wonderful, complex heroine with actual problems, both internal and external. Wonderful hero, though not fully fleshed out, supportive and charming and mostly interesting with problems of his own, just about at the end of his rope in regards to our heroine. Cool subplots. Fun characters. Interesting locations.

Now, that's all good, but if you're writing a book, those things are expected. I mean, if you want anyone to read it you'd damn well better have all that and more, right? Would you pay $25 to read a book about a happy man and happy woman and their wonderful, lovely lives together brunching on champagne and caviar? Neither would I. Might like to visit that land myself, though, come to think of it. But a story should carry you away to fantasy land, and for that you need a bad guy. An antagonist. A villian.

Today, my villian showed up and I couldn't be more thrilled. He's pretty twisted, incredibly handsome, very charming, and possibly an arsonist. I don't know about that yet. I have a fire but I'm not sure if he set it.

Regardless of what he's done, I know he's the bad guy and now my cast is complete. There's a catalyst in the story that makes the other pieces into a cohesive engine that will actually run. He makes my subplots hum with purpose and causes my heroine to stretch way yonder outside her comfort zone in order to reach her goals. He gives an air of darkness, of mystery, of dark humor. And boy, is he great looking. There's a reason so many women keep falling for him. I'm starting to think that if he makes it to the end of this manuscript in once piece and keeps himself out of prison, he might be the hero of the work after the next one.

We'll have to wait and see about that. Either way, women love a bad guy. It's going to make it tough to create one who won't immediately fall under his spell.

I can hardly wait.

Yelling "Fire!" On a Crowded Resume

I'm a good person with a great personality. Anyone who knows me will tell you so. Seriously. Also, I'm funny. I'm cheerful, charitable, and compassionate. I'm smart, picking skills up quickly, finding creative solutions to problems, organizing even the most diabolical of storage rooms.

Why then, did I keep getting fired all the time?

Now, it's not like I've been fired from every job. No, sirree. On the list below, I was only fired from the ones with the asterisk (*) next to them. Some jobs I left under my own steam. Some of them I left under my own steam in less than two weeks (~). But in the following list of twenty-two jobs, which is probably significant for a thirty four year-old, I was fired from six of them. Three jobs in one year alone, the year we lived on Hilton Head Island, jobs 13-18. Look over this list and see what you think:

1) Church nursery

2) Rivers Edge Restaurant, bussing tables

3) * Van Burens upscale women's clothing clerk

4) Painted Clothes, basically a cart in the mall with weird painted outfits

5) * T-shirt printing shop

6) Third Base Video, Balloons, and Tanning

7) Hostess @ Damons, had to wear a necktie

8) * not-Blockbuster Video store

9) Bartender/Waitress at Grumpy's Bar, loud rock bands, dancing on the bar, whatnot

10) National Travel, corporate travel agent, the job that scarred me for life

11) ~ Life insurance sales, and why I thought I could do this???

12) AAA Travel, corporate travel agent again but in a nicer place

13) * Insurance front desk

14) ~ Preschool daycare worker, keeping charge of eight two year-olds all day

15) * Global Reservation System, booking time shares, harder than it sounds actually

16) ~ Travel agency again, vacation travel bookings at a nice little place

17) * Long's Travel, agent for the last time, better money but snotty clientel

18) Hallmark shop clerk where my feet nearly fell off from the pain

19) Legal transcriptionist, nice sit down at home job

20) After school daycare program manager, good work, great kids

21) Real estate office front desk, nice small office work

22) Office manager for court reporting firm, at home work again

I have been fired for many reasons, some justified, some confusing. At Van Buren's I was okay in the stockroom, receiving orders, steaming and tagging clothes, but I was awkward as a retail clerk. Seriously awkward. I might have had a hundred bucks in sales the entire time I worked there.

The T-shirt printing shop in the mall? That firing came as a huge surprise. I think I didn't keep the shirts folded correctly in the bins. I'm not sure about that one because the couple who owned the place spoke Vietnamese all the time.

The non-Blockbuster place? Yeah, I didn't show up for work on time one day. That sounds kind of innocuous but, unfortunately, that was the day I was scheduled to open the store. The district manager came by to rate us and there were people standing around outside forty-five minutes into the time we were supposed to be open for business. Um, whoops? "I didn't hear my alarm" wasn't a justified defense for that.

Number 13 was working front desk at a quiet little life insurance agency. I was there about a month when the office manager told me out of the blue that the owner didn't like me. This still pokes around in my head. How odd is that to get fired, not from bad job performance, but because the owner decides he doesn't like you? And how could he not like me? (See paragraph 1 at the top.)

The next was a time-share reservation place. I made the mistake of smarting off at a woman I worked with. Dumb, but I didn't know it would slap me in the face like that. No one else liked her either. Ah, well.

And the last time was the last travel agency. One day one of my swanky clients purchased an around the world first class ticket from me. I was ecstatic to make such an interesting arrangement. But he came in and complained to the manager that I'd gotten him a wrong connecting flight. He asked for a refund of his ($5000) ticket and the next morning, very first thing, I was fired. My boss asked me why I hadn't asked for help with the ticket. Do other people just ask for help with things they think they are doing RIGHT?

Obviously, the firings hurt. All of them hurt at the times they happened and they're a big part of the reason why I don't work outside the home now. It's never been hard for me to get a job and there've been several jobs I've kept for long periods of time. The first travel agency? I was there for more than two years. Hey, now for me, that's a stretch. The second one was for a year. And that year that I bartended and waitressed at the bar? That was interesting. And the legal transcription I did for years, off and on.

In order not to lose my mind over it, I have to keep thinking that I'm not cut out to hold a "real" job because I'm supposed to be writing. It is the only work that holds my focus. I'm praying one day to make money at it. Because Rich is great and he works his butt off so I don't have to, but I'd love to support him in return. And I'd love, just once, to have a career at which I can be successful.

Addendum

So I totally copied the last blog I posted from a bulletin my brother-in-law sent to me. The tone of it is kinda preachy and there are a number of grammatical errors, but I like the sentiments.

It's exhausting to be in the party of people who listen reasonably and try to understand problems in the world, discussing and debating solutions, trying so hard to make everyone happy, only to come off as a bunch of wimpy, spineless, bleeding hearts who can't make any decisions. But I cannot belong to a party whose members all share a single mindset, never waver from the talking points and bully anyone who disagrees with their message or methods. Though that must be a much more peaceful way to view the world. I bet you don't even have to read or watch the news to live like that.

How did it happen that a thirst for knowledge became "highbrow" to so many in our society today? Why is such a value placed on ignorance? Didn't anyone else feel offense when during the 2000 Presidential Election, George W. Bush was lauded as being "just like normal folks," when obviously what they meant was "he don't talk good." Excuse me? And he's wanting to run the country? That shouldn't be a problem.

I don't believe there is any such thing as having too much information, not for anyone. Knowledge is power, diplomacy is harder than war, and caring for others is charitable, not weak.

And with that, I'll climb down off the soapbox for now, retaining my right to jump back on later when something else sets me off.

A Day in the Life of Joe Middle-Class Republican

Day in the Life of Joe Middle-Class Republican

by John Gray

Joe gets up at 6:00am to prepare his morning coffee. He fills his pot full of good clean drinking water because some liberal fought for minimum water quality standards. He takes his daily medication with his first swallow of coffee. His medications are safe to take because some liberal fought to insure their safety and work as advertised.

All but $10.00 of his medications are paid for by his employers medical plan because some liberal union workers fought their employers for paid medical insurance, now Joe gets it too. He prepares his morning breakfast, bacon and eggs this day. Joe's bacon is safe to eat because some liberal fought for laws to regulate the meat packing industry.

Joe takes his morning shower reaching for his shampoo; His bottle is properly labeled with every ingredient and the amount of its contents because some liberal fought for his right to know what he was putting on his body and how much it contained. Joe dresses, walks outside and takes a deep breath. The air he breathes is clean because some tree hugging liberal fought for laws to stop industries from polluting our air. He walks to the subway station for his government subsidized ride to work; it saves him considerable money in parking and transportation fees. You see, some liberal fought for affordable public transportation, which gives everyone the opportunity to be a contributor.

Joe begins his work day; he has a good job with excellent pay, medicals benefits, retirement, paid holidays and vacation because some liberal union members fought and died for these working standards. Joe's employer pays these standards because Joe's employer doesn't want his employees to call the union. If Joe is hurt on the job or becomes unemployed he'll get a worker compensation or unemployment check because some liberal didn't think he should lose his home because of his temporary misfortune.

Its noon time, Joe needs to make a Bank Deposit so he can pay some bills. Joe's deposit is federally insured by the FSLIC because some liberal wanted to protect Joe's money from unscrupulous bankers who ruined the banking system before the depression.

Joe has to pay his Fannie Mae underwritten Mortgage and his below market federal student loan because some stupid liberal decided that Joe and the government would be better off if he was educated and earned more money over his life-time.

Joe is home from work, he plans to visit his father this evening at his farm home in the country. He gets in his car for the drive to dads; his car is among the safest in the world because some liberal fought for car safety standards. He arrives at his boyhood home. He was the third generation to live in the house financed by Farmers Home Administration because bankers didn't want to make rural loans. The house didn't have electric until some big government liberal stuck his nose where it didn't belong and demanded rural electrification. (Those rural Republican's would still be sitting in the dark)

He is happy to see his dad who is now retired. His dad lives on Social Security and his union pension because some liberal made sure he could take care of himself so Joe wouldn't have to. After his visit with dad he gets back in his car for the ride home.

He turns on a radio talk show, the host's keeps saying that liberals are bad and conservatives are good. (He doesn't tell Joe that his beloved Republicans have fought against every protection and benefit Joe enjoys throughout his day) Joe agrees, "We don't need those big government liberals ruining our lives; after all, I'm a self made man who believes everyone should take care of themselves, just like I have".

Once Upon a Bad Hair Day

I was born tow-headed blonde. By the time I was twelve my hair had morphed to ashy, mousy, blah-blonde. I was pretty sure that wasn't right. I had gorgeous white skin and green, green eyes. Surely I was supposed to be a redhead. My mother didn't agree. Dyed red hair looked "cheap" and my father would "throw me out of the house," she said. When I was nineteen I began what I'll call an interesting year, moving in with girlfriends as I worked (illegally-cough) at a bar. It took about three days before I realized my dad could no longer throw me out of the house and I took a trip to K-mart to buy some hair color. I was a little skittish on what to buy, so I went with the wash out stuff for awhile and got a feel for which reds were best.

After a couple of years and the birth of my son (I'm skipping some good stuff here which has nothing to do with haircolor.... we'll revisit "The Wonder Years" later) I longed for a permanent change. I made an appointment to get my hair colored, left my baby with my sweetie and drove joyfully, top down on the convertible, long hair blowing mousily in the wind, to the salon.

I should probably point out here that I never went to a salon. I never got my hair cut, only occasionally trimmed. Perms fell out under the weight (or slid out from the texture... never was sure which) so I typically just went my merry way with my big, long 90's hair teased out at the sides, just barely rid of the rooster bangs that were such a big hit for such a long time. Basically, I hadn't a clue what I was doing.

I arrived at the salon, met my stylist who looked about my age. Now, at 34 I would think, "Huh, new girl? No experience? I think not." But at 22? I was like, "A chick my own age to talk to! Cool!" The stylist handed me a big thingy of false hair in various shades of red and I chose what I thought to be a tasteful yet intense shade, sure to match my vibrant personality and offset my eyes. The stylist dyed, rinsed, and blew my hair dry, combing it out, looking a little wide-eyed as she worked, and turned me to face the mirror.

I gasped. I had thick bangs, straight across and a long fall of thick, straight hair. All of it was bright. Finally. I would never blend into a crowd again. I shook my head and watched all that bright hair ripple over my shoulders, waving down my back. I paid the girl and trotted out to my car where I spent five minutes admiring my vibrant self in the rearview mirror. I put the top down again, fastened all that hair into a ponytail, and drove off. When I got out of the slow city traffic and began crossing the Nitro/St. Albans city bridge, I caught a glimpse of something in the rearview. My car was on fire! But no, it was my hair flaming away like that in the wind.

Oh. God.

I pulled off the road into a parking lot and examined my hair again. In the bright sun my hair was the color of a carrot grown fertilized in nuclear waste. I gulped and endeavored to drive on. Surely it's not bad. It's bright! It goes with my chipper, upbeat, stylish personality!

When I pulled up to Rich's apartment he was outside with my baby, blowing bubbles off the front balcony to make Kevin laugh. I got out of my car and, I swear, I could hear him gulp. Kevin stared like I was a cartoon Mommy now. His little hand went right to my hair, twining it through his fingers, fascinated. Rich looked at me and said, "It's a little bright, isn't it?" That was when I knew I was in trouble.

I went home and took a long, hard look in my own mirror. I brushed all my hair out and then pulled it all up into a bun on top of my head, thinking maybe it wouldn't look so bad concentrated. It was so orange I kept being surprised that it wasn't burning my face off. My mother saw it and gasped, "What did you do?" My dad, contrary to popular opinion, merely said, "Hey, did you do something with your hair?" and went on his way.

At this point, I knew I could NOT appear on Monday morning in my corporate workplace with toxic orange hair. I called the Salon of Insanity but they had closed, probably as soon as they saw me drive away. (That salon went bankrupt shortly after this. I wasn't surprised.) So I pulled on a hat and went to the drugstore for damage control. I figured I could buy something darker and more conservative to put over the carrot.

The drugstore yielded a great surprise! Hair stripper! It was just what I needed. Get the nuclear orange out and start over. Genius. I bought the box of stripper and then picked up a more sensible color of red hair dye for use after the noxious color was removed. I headed for home with joy in my heart, flames again shooting around behind my head in the open air.

I read the directions. I swear my hand to God, I read the directions. I rinsed the stripper out earlier than directed when the crunchiness began to worry me. I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed, my long hair turning blonder and finally, a sickly yellow before my eyes. I ignored it as best I could and tried to drown out the sound of crunching by dousing my head with a bottle of conditioner. I got it in my right eye and sat winking, head hanging into the tub, praying I wouldn't have to carry off a Sinead O'Connor look.

After the final rinse and a slow, ginger comb out, I took stock, took a deep breath, and decided the new red ought to neatly cover what could now only be called hay-hair. I left the new color on only ten minutes. When I had it dried and combed out again, it was pink. But only from the ears down. The top of my head was bright yellow. I looked like a clown, a scary clown you might catch smoking a cigarette out of a frowny-painted mouth at a run-down traveling carnival.

I began to panic.

Sunday morning I skipped church for my mother's sake. I did, undoubtedly, look "cheap."

I debated not going to work, but when I called in my manager informed me I couldn't take off for a bad hair day. So I picked out a full-skirted dress and a wide-brimmed hat, pinned securely to my head with bobby pins. I faked an air of confidence that the wide-brimmed hat was totally appropriate in the workplace while, between all my incoming calls from clients, I frantically dialed beauty salons looking for one open on a Monday and where someone, anyone, could fix my poor, frazzled hair. Finally, I managed to get someone who could take me if I could get there immediately. I begged out with my office manager by pulling her into the ladies' and showing her what was under my hat. I left for the salon with her laughter ringing in my ears.

The stylist was kind. She didn't laugh at me (to my face-- who could blame her if she laughed with her husband later?) but she did fix my hair. To this day, I don't know exactly what she did, but when I left that salon I had relatively soft, medium brown hair.

The next morning I had flowers delivered to the woman with a note thanking her for my ability to go to work bare-headed.

In the last decade, I've again been every shade of red, settling in the last couple years on a nice, bright coppery color that I need to refresh every four weeks to maintain. I love my hair vibrant red. There are days when that hair makes me feel like my name should be Veronica, like I'm a dangerous woman to know. A spy, perhaps, or an elite member of the international jet-set. But every four weeks when I break out the box of color and comb out my hair in preparation, I remember my first permanent dye job. And slipping my hands into the gloves, I giggle.

Writing is Hard

"There's nothing to writing. ..All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

The only thing I've ever been really good at is writing. In high school, I was known for it. Creative writing came so naturally to me, that even when I had to present a topical speech for communications class, I could do it easily, overcoming for a few moments my own shyness and discovering I had no fear of public speaking through the filter of my own writing. When I could use my writing to entertain, I was happy to speak in front of the class. Once, when I was a senior, conservatively dressed, looking freshly scrubbed and earnest, I presented a persuasive argument I had written that young women could find a fun and rewarding career in prostitution. Now, neither Gloria Steinem nor my mother would have been amused, but my speech was funny and my classmates and my teacher howled, eradicating my fear of public speaking forever.

Today, besides the effect of my writing on readers (though I'm waiting breathlessly to observe that more widely), I'm intrigued with the process. It interests me, for example, that I can get more work done in line at carpool than I can first thing in the morning with my coffee hot beside me and a house all to myself. But in the car there are no distractions: no dogs longing to be petted, no dishes to load, no laundry to sort. And I don't know if it's true for everyone, but a vacuum is never more appealing than when there is serious work to be done. The second draft of my current manuscript is giving me fits right now but my carpets have never been so free of dog hair. And that original creativity-killing dragon known as television, has been slain by my knight in shining armor, TiVo. TiVo rescued me from the dank obelisk of scheduled programming, freeing me to write on my schedule, comfy in the knowledge that Grey's Anatomy and The Sopranos will be waiting, ready to enjoy guilt-free, when my word count is in for the day.

But, I was discussing process, right? Not distractions from it? Right. Take note that the tangent can be a real distraction from purposeful writing.

Learning about craft is important, to some degree. I've always written, always worked toward finished products, always dreamt of publication but, until a year ago, I didn't realize how much was on the internet for writers. I had separate parts of my brain for each, writing time and goofing off online time and never the twain shall meet. When I was close to finishing the first draft of my last manuscript, I decided to look around online just to see if maybe I could find a little information about publishers or agents. What a doofus I was. Days of research later, I was a member of RWA, an applicant for a scholarship to the National convention in Atlanta, and had a whole group of online compatriots who shared revision tips, brainstorming techniques, and support for each other as easily as neighbors exchanging cups of sugar over the fence line. For awhile, craft dominated my study-time each day. I learned from it, but sometimes too much emphasis on craft can take away from the story and, in my world, story is paramount. I don't write literature. I write stories. But genre is another discussion altogether.

An online community is a real help as writing is such a fiercely solitary activity. I can't discuss an early work in progress for fear of killing the buzz of writing it in the first place, but neither can I focus on anything else. Friendships suffer during weeks of good revisions when every sentence and plot twist makes me giggle. I completely neglect friends and family who don't live right under my nose. The two men who do live under my nose tend to suffer during those times because any interruption (is it the testosterone that makes men unable to find their own things?) could cause a pivotal idea to twirl right out of my head. I don't mean to be bitchy about it, really. But I am just the same.

Fun as it may be, the process of writing is an enormous leap of faith. There are no guarantees that I will ever sell anything, much less make a career of writing. There aren't even any guarantees that I'll be able to finish every story I start. My last manuscript of about 85K words took about a year, revisions and all. I'm six months and 56K words into the new book and it's good. I'm through the first draft and working on revisions. But there's no ending because I don't yet know how it ends. There's more of the story to be written and I know the ending to this book will be just as satisfying as that of my last, but I have no idea what that ending is. What I do know is if I keep filling in the story, keep lining up the subplots, keep embellishing the overall plot, the end will arrive. I have that faith.

The writing process for any writer is individual, but the joy of immersion into a story that's spinning out of your head faster than you can type it must be universal. Otherwise, why do it? Why put yourself out there? Writing is basically that well-known dream of being stripped naked in public come to life, and as often as the joy appears, there are more times when it's a painful, introspective process. How much easier it would be if you could pick and choose which feelings to display. But you can't. Not if you're going to be truthful. As far as I can tell, that's what leads to the dreaded writer's block. And I'm not touching that topic. That's just whistling up trouble.