Being a Homicidal Maniac...I mean...Writer.

The lone typewriter. The writer's sanctuary. A cup of pencils for editing, plenty of paper, a pack of cigarettes, an ash tray, and the most peaceful atmosphere you can imagine. Isolation. Pure, wonderful isolation. Dim lights. A thick wooden desk. Quiet. Silence. No hustle and bustle or sound of traffic. Just a typewriter, a desk, a chair and you with your brilliant ideas.
Suddenly, your silence is shattered. It could be anyone. A loved one, probably. Someone who has been rooting for you. Someone who wants you to be published and succeed at this finicky, difficult art. You want to be receptive to them. Still...they've interrupted you. They've managed to destroy your concentration. You try to be patient. They ask you something ridiculously asinine, like, "Get a lot of writing done?" or maybe they bring up the weather like you're supposed to care. You answer with monosyllabic replies, trying hard to get them to see that you need to be left alone. By the end of the conversation, you bite their head clean off their shoulders. You tried. Non-writers simply don't understand writers.
It's not finished yet, but you leave it behind to get something to eat or take a short walk. Maybe throw a tennis ball against the wall. It's delicate right now. Not what you would consider "good" by any stretch of the imagination. It's tender and raw, like an opened wound. Lo and behold, they look at it in its worst form. Pre-revision...pre-edit...they hit you at your most vulnerable simply because of their ignorant, idle curiosity. How could they? You weren't ready yet! It's like someone peering over your shoulder at a coffee shop. Or maybe even looking up your skirt or going through your underwear drawer.
So of course, like the writer you are, you handle the situation accordingly. With love, patience and understanding. Just because you're vulnerable, preparing to query and at your lowest point before possible success...that doesn't mean you're going to take it out on the people you love the most.

Peace out. Be gone a week in isolation in Utah so I can work on the query letter and try to accomplish something without other distractions. Writing in isolation can be productive...and scary. >:)

Awkward yet charming?

I'm figuring out a Steampunk outfit. Bonnie Hearn Hill got me a jacket for being a finisher. (I need to do her justice by getting a query letter out there, by jove.) It's the jacket I listed in the last blog. Excuse me for only addressing fashion lately. That's just what I've been into.

Here is an awkward picture of me in front of my closet mirror with a messy room behind me. I'm not sure why I'm posing like that...but hey. There you go. The jeans aren't my favorite part of it, although they do have some neat zippers you can't see. The boots are Target, the top hat was a gift from my cousin and sister from years past, long before I discovered this genre. (Organic writing.) I'm wearing a corset I actually purchased from Charlotte Russe, who just happened to have a load of them for sale. Kind of funny timing, but I suppose we are coming up on Halloween, where there will be tons of pirate wenches, slutty barmaids, vampire queens and dominatrixes. Or dominatrixen?

Anyway, like I said. Terrible pictures, especially since they're taken with an ancient Blackberry. [I'm in desperate need of a new phone but being an adult is expensive, it turns out.] But I've decided to record my Steampunk fashion progress. It can be an expensive genre to try and dress for! Sheesh. But so fun. And complimentary! Corsets do wonders for the figure. Whoduh thunk? Haha.

Happy Friday.

Clothes, clothes, clothes.

Bonnie introduced me to Pyramid clothing. They specialize in a lot of Gothic stuff. It's pretty cool, most of it. They also do STEAMPUNK. Ow, ow, ow.

http://tinyurl.com/3mts36c

The link is there. Here is a super lame MS paint copy and paste of what they do. So kewl.