Courtesy of. . . Me

The year was 1983. The destination: a very small, overly picturesque village on Crete’s southern coast. The travelers: me, the 5 year old, and my mother. The reason: My father’s side of the family lives there (and my father flew before we did). And, my father was producing a Joan Baez concert in Heraklion.

That summer was totally fantastic. The trip there? Not so much.

Here. I’ll tell you what happened.

My mother is the best planner I know, and she did everything in her power to prepare me for the trip. I remember sitting on her lap, facing her, while she explained that sometimes airplanes tip ever so slightly when they make turns, but it doesn’t mean there’s a problem. I was worried about my ability to ask my relatives for a drink of water, so we worked on my Greek vocabulary. She’s the best.

Apparently, the trip from San Francisco to Rome was uneventful enough. I pretty much minded my own business and drew a lot of pictures. The TWA (talk about ancient history) flight attendants had glitter on their cheeks, which I loved, and one of them really wanted me to eat at least a few bites of chicken, which I didn’t love.

Then we landed in Rome, where what would have simply been a difficult trip under any circumstances turned into a story that’s still told all these years later.

I don’t know what was happening in Rome in 1983. My mother doesn’t remember anything other than “it was a political situation.” So I don’t know why there were soldiers marching in perfect unison up and down the hallways of the airport.

I also don’t know why I was absolutely convinced they were after my mother. It might have had something to do with the machine guns they had over their shoulders. And those guns, especially to a puny 5 year old, were humungous.

Here’s some kid logic for you: They were going to arrest my mother, even though “I promise, my Mommy didn’t do anything wrong!” and leave me all alone. I was going to wander the airport all by myself for the rest of my life (in this scenario, I wasn’t going to age. I was always going to be 5, kind of like how Big Bird will always be 6).

Here begins the tantrum portion of our story.

Ask my mother why she didn’t take me away from the soldiers, and she’ll tell you the soldiers were everywhere.

Fast forward a few excruciating hours, to the Athens airport. Now, in 1983, pre the fabulous Olympic Games makeover, the Athens Airport was pretty icky (and that’s putting it nicely). To make things even harder, travelers had to take a bus or taxi from the international terminal to the domestic terminal. And we had to get to our flight to Crete.

So, my mother dragged me through the baggage claim, through customs, and outside into the heat. She found a taxi.

However.

I wasn’t a New Yorker then. I didn’t know what a taxi was. My mother hadn’t gone over this with me. All I knew was that Mommy, all of my teachers, the police and even Ronald McDonald said to never, ever get into a stranger’s car. (There were a ton of kidnappings in the Bay Area in the early 80′s, and kids were overly trained to stay safe.)

So why on earth my mother was trying to shove me into a stranger’s car was beyond me, especially since the soldiers in Rome were still after her, even though, and I promise, she didn’t do anything wrong.

Now, you’d think she’d be able to shove me into the taxi, right?

Wrong.

Remember Norma Rae, and that scene where Sally field refuses to get into the police car? (If not, click here and go to the :30 mark.) Yeah. I kind of did something like that.

But really, can you blame me? The driver was this scary Greek guy who was probably smoking and getting annoyed with us.

Yes, we missed our flight to Crete. Luckily, there are a lot of flights to Crete and we probably would’ve missed ours anyway.

I think I’ll keep telling myself that.

The rest of the summer was a great success, by the way. You may have seen some of the photos. I asked for drinks of water beautifully. The Joan Baez concert got rained out and had to be postponed to the following night, which I was kind of bummed about, but check out how I spent that evening instead. Pretty cool, huh?

And yes. I feel really guilty for making that trip so rough. I’ve since apologized to my mother. I’ve also reminded her that it could’ve been worse. A few years later, I was back in the Athens Airport with my step mother and two year old half brother. I puked all over baggage carousel. While it was moving.

Really, you can’t take me anywhere.

Why am I telling you this story? A few reasons.

First of all, I’ve been bitten by the travel bug. I used to travel a lot. I’m totally addicted to the travel channel, am obsessed with Globe Trekker, and the heroine of my third book is the host of a travel show.

Secondly, back in June, Jennifer Weiner had a bad experience on a plane while she was traveling with her two year old. Some bitch in front of her made it even more unpleasant. She put out a call for child related travel horror stories. I was going to send her mine, but with the end of the school year and my mother’s hip surgery there was just no way. But you can read the winning stories here. (You have to scroll down. For some reason, I can’t link to specific posts. Sorry.)

Well, that’s all I’ve got. Wish me luck on my upcoming trip to Orlando for RWA 2010!

Anybody got any travel nightmares to share? That’s what the comments are for!

See ya!

Of Brakes and Word Walls?!?

Hello Good People.

So yesterday, we talked about sleep. Today’s topic? Dreams.

Specifically, my dreams. And why they’re annoying.

True Story: I was in the woods at a world music camp. It was the middle of the night, and pitch black. I was sound asleep, in my tent-cabin, having a nightmare. Then, a guy walked by with a flashlight. Next thing I knew, somebody was waking me up because apparently, I screamed. Not just any scream, but one of those Grade B horror movie screams.

Really, you can’t take me anywhere.

Anyway. Point is. My dreams aren’t fun. Which is why the Cheese Man episode of Buffy was absolutely traumatizing for me. I can’t even watch this YouTube clip:

Here are a few examples. I’ll keep it light though.

Recurring Nightmares

1. I’m driving on a major, multi-lane street in the neighborhood where I grew up. It’s dark. I’m going really fast. The light turns red.

I step on the brake, but the car won’t stop.

I really, really, want to stop the car. I promise, I do. I just can’t.

Then the police are chasing me, and I try to telepathically ask them for help and let them know I’m not doing this on purpose. The car keeps flying through red lights.

Then, I wake up.

Raise your hand if you think I’m a control freak.

Raise your hand if you think this dream is really bizarre since I haven’t owned a car since I moved to New York.

2. I find out I have to go back to school (depending on the night, the type and level of school changes) because I’ve forgotten to take a class and haven’t really graduated. I register for the classes I need, but then it’s the end of the semester and I’ve forgotten to show up for one of the classes. All semester long. I have to cram for the final.

Then, I wake up.

It’s all very Billy Madison / Community. (I’ve never seen Community actually. The premise scares me to pieces. And Billy Madison I’ve only seen clips of. My college roommates had it on constantly.)

Work Related Dreams

1. It was a week or two ago. During summer “vacation.” (July has not been a vacation so far, hence the quotes.)

I had a dream that I was teaching first grade again. There were ten days of school left. Somebody pointed out that I had neglected to teach my students any of the 100 sight words. Oops. I’d forgotten, all year, to put up a word wall. I’d forgotten to teach them much of anything.

So, I decided to teach the kids ten words a day for the last ten days of school and hope for the best.

And the guilt was overwhelming.

This dream was so real I woke up believing it was true.

Awful confession. I had to go to iPhoto and dig though photos of my classroom to calm myself down.

Oh thank goodness. Sight words. And turkeys. Guess I taught those kids something after all.

Keep in mind that this was July. I don’t even teach first grade anymore. OMGWTFBBQ. Can’t I just be left alone?

2. I’m on a field trip. I lose a kid.

3. I forget to show up at graduation.

4. I work in my sleep. I basically live through a work day. Then I have to get up and go to work. Good times.

Creepy Dreams

1. When I was a kid, I had this dream that the woman picking me up from school wasn’t actually my mother. It was was an evil person with a mask.

2. Something happens to Creature.

You really don’t need to hear the rest.

Hopefully, I’m not as messed up and insecure as these dreams make me sound. Huh.

So, People. How do you feel about dreams?

Here. I’ll leave you with a little something to shake off any dream related creepiness I’ve caused you:

Here’s to sweet dreams!

No wonder I’m cranky. . .

All right People. Let’s have a little chat, shall we? The topic? Sleep. Or lack thereof.

I’ll start.

I’m tired. Scratch that. I’m exhausted.

And it’s really pissing me off because this summer, I’m kind of stuck in the house helping my mother, and I have no need to set my alarm, so I’ve got no good reason to be this tired.

Except for the fact that sleeping is not one of my talents. In fact, I suck at it. And the saddest thing about this is that my mother says the sleep trouble started when I was an infant.

See? Here’s me. Not sleeping:

32.4 years of sleep debt. No wonder I’m cranky. I’m freaked out too, because I remember hearing something on TV about how for every hour of sleep you lose, your IQ drops a bit.

So yeah. Math is another thing I suck at, but let’s add up every hour of sleep I’ve lost over the course of my life, and add that number to my IQ. Wow. Okay, maybe let’s not. Point is, if I were well rested, I could’ve possibly been the next Einstein or something. You think? I’m just saying. . .

Anyway, I’ve tried so many things to help me fall asleep, like turning off the computer, TV, etc. an hour before bed, making the room a bit cool, exercise, yoga, tea, reading, and at some point, counting sheep. Cause y’all know I like sheep and stuff.

I just don’t enjoy sleep. There are so many things I’d rather be doing. Just think of all the things I’m missing by getting into bed! I could be playing Bubble Shooter or something. (Or figuring out why all the images I’ve inserted into this post look totally aligned in draft form but move all over the place in the final version.)

I’d compare the need to sleep to the need to eat spinach and Brussels sprouts, except I happen to like those things (yeah, that’s another topic).

You know what else? I get a burst of energy when it gets dark. How, may I ask, am I supposed to sleep under those conditions? But in the morning, forget it. I’m about as useless and pleasant as a used coffee filter.

Besides, I always wake up groggy and disoriented. Plus, there’s the added bonus of my tossing and turning, which makes my hair escape from the elastic band I tie it back with, so I always wake up with frizzy tangles and nobody in their right mind would disagree that Morning Mel looks like Medusa.

It’s just not worth it.

Unless you happen to value your IQ points.

(Note: If you’re going to RWA, and you happen to see a zombie roaming the halls of the hotel, it’s not some author playing one of her characters, or something Buffy and the Scooby Gang need to deal with. It’s just me.)

Okay, your turn. Sleep. Discuss amongst yourselves.

Sweet Dreams!

P.S. Next blog topic: Dreams. Specifically, my dreams, and why they’re annoying.

Apps for the writerly type. . .

So get this. Here I am at Chez Mom, with time on my hands, quiet (when Creature is behaving, that is), and cool, foggy weather. You’d think the whole writing thing I like to take part in would be going swimmingly, right?

People, people. If you thought that, you’d be so wrong. Nice of you to think that though.

But hey. RWA is right around the corner. So it’s time to pull the writing career together.

And, geek that I am, I’ve got apps for that! You probably do too. And if you do, I beg you to share them in the comments! I’ll really love it and it’ll be great for your karma, too.

Here are mine, by category.

~

Word Count Apps:

Write Chain (Set goals, and set how many days you can take off from writing without breaking the chain. My chain? Yeah, that’s way broken. Haven’t clicked on the app in a while. . .)

NaNoMoJo (Can we please talk about how much I can’t wait to use this in November? It’s like having the whole NaNo site on your phone, and you can even keep track of your buddies!)

Brainstorming and Diva Pleasing Apps:

Question of the Day (Tons of questions you can apply to your characters, and they’re organized by deepness (is that even a word?). Really helps you figure out what makes your characters tick.)

Love Quotes (Fine. It’s way cheesy. HOWEVER. In those rare moments you want your characters to be somewhat nice to each other, and you’re in a really bad mood and can’t pull off that miracle (not that this would ever happen to me, of course,) this helps.

Practical Apps:

Readdle Docs / Good Reader (It can be really great to turn your WIP into a .pdf and read it on your phone or iPad. Not being able to take notes and having your writing feel like a real live ebook can sometimes, although not always, be fantastic. Plus, you always have your work with you, so you can turn being stuck in line at the grocery store, or stuck on the freaking Q train, into a golden opportunity.)

Baby Name Apps (I’m not giving any links, since it’s easy to go to the app store and find ones you like. I was lucky enough to find an app with Greek baby names and meanings, since most of my characters, in all three of my WIP’s, are Greek.)

WriteRoom (A distraction free writing environment for your phone. Although I find I prefer my phone’s built in notepad, since, I must confess, I prefer the cheery yellow to the scary black. Yeah, I like cheerful. Who knew? All I’m saying is, check it out.)

WikiTap / Wikipedia / Dictionary (Kind of obvious, right? Just wanted to mention it though. I really adore the built in videos for research purposes, since it prevents getting lost in the glory that is the YouTube app.)

Evernote (Great for keeping track of notes, info, etc. I have it, but confess I don’t use it much because I have a Scrivener organization process that is almost humiliatingly obsessive and honed.)

Apps to help with Productive Procrastination:

Othello (You’ll thank me later. Or, actually, probably not. But still, I urge you to download and enjoy.)

Cheezburger Clock App (OMG it’s so worth every penny. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, start the madness here).

magic8ball (How else are your characters going to make decisions? You’ll thank me later. For real this time.)

People Magazine (No, I refuse to be embarrassed for mentioning that.)

The Onion (So much fun!)

If you’re tired and need to “refill the well:”

YogaStretch and YogaRelax (A great thing to do before and/or after placing your butt on your chair and your hands on your keyboard! Bonus if you don’t have a dog who howls when he sees you get on the floor.)

Stitcher and Pandora (When I get sick of listening to my story soundtrack, these apps are a great way to find music that’s geared towards my taste but that I haven’t necessarily heard. Warning though – Pandora links right to your iTunes store, which makes it almost as addicting that the Amazon Kindle app.)

And, because writers are readers too:

Audible (OMG Audible has an app now! Which makes audiobooks WAY too easy to listen to and buy.)

snaptell (Have you heard about this? You take a photo of a barcode on a book, and you are instantly directed to reviews and other information. Works on CD’s and DVD’s too!)

TBR (Released by Smart Bitches and Dear Author – it’s a great place for book reviews and they have free stuff too!)

~

Last but not least, I just came across this video. This looks like a cool app too!

And there you have it! I showed you my apps, now you show me yours.

In the comments that is.

Ciao!

Just in case y’all needed a visual definition. . .

Sending foggy thoughts!

Hi People.

First of all, don’t hate me because I’m in a place that’s about 33 degrees cooler than it is in NYC (and a lot of the North East). I feel truly awful for anybody dealing with the absolutely unacceptable heatwave from hell. In my neighborhood (language alert on that link, btw), electricity has been turned off and people are flocking to the library to cool down.

My thoughts are with you. I feel your pain. If I could bottle some fog and send it your way, I would. I promise.

I’m serious about that. Y’all know how I feel about unacceptable weather, right?

Wish I could have you over for a slumber party in the S.F. East Bay! Hang in there.

As for what’s doin’ by me:

Well, I went to work on June 24th and brought Creature with me, ended a brutal school year and dashed to JFK where it was 97 freaking degrees. I watched as TSA put Creature’s beloved toy ferret through a very intrusive inspection, and handed Creature off. I dealt with a plane delay, was reassured that Creature was being kept cool and taken care of (apparently, the diva got pissed off and knocked over the water container he was offered). The flight attendant told me everybody was quite amused by the stories the “ramp guys” were telling about him over the radio.

Really, I don’t need to know what they said.

And then, I arrived at gorgeous Chez Mom sometime after midnight, and a few days later, had to get up at 4:15 a.m. for her hip surgery.

Poor Creature worships my mother, and wants you all to know that he staged a hunger strike and kept vigil by the front door almost the whole time she was in the hospital:

Thank G-d she is home and doing just fine. She’s rocking her physical therapy exercises and keeping her spirits up, but I’ve got to say, surgery really and truly sucks, even when you’re healthy and in a great hospital, getting wonderful care. At least she had a view of the U.C. Berkeley campus.

I’m still exhausted. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

See you next time! Meanwhile, I leave you with this video clip of Creature and his bee and this video clip of Point Isabel, the best dog park in the entire universe (sans fog you’d be able to see the S.F. skyline and the Golden Gate). Notice that Mother has had the backyard redone (and how bonkers she went in the squeaky toy section of PetCo).

Signed,

One exhausted, but thankfully cool, Mel

Kidding Season

As promised, I’m going to shine a big bright light on my most humiliating episodes of writer-related insanity.

Without further ado, here’s writer crazy incident #1:

Y’all know I have a thing for goats (and sheep, etc.) right? I write about Crete, my father’s family is all from Crete, so it fits.

And it goes back a long way:

Last year, I found out the teacher next door spent his spring break on a goat farm to help with kidding season. Once I realized what “kidding” meant (I’m slow, especially after a long school day), I got really excited because there’s a scene in my first book wherein the hero and heroine help a goat deliver her baby.

So I bombarded him with all sorts of questions, and when he mentioned a breech birth, I spat out, “Oh yeah, I saw something like that when I was watching goat births on YouTube!!!!!”

At which point, he took a giant step backwards.

I never did get a chance to explain the reason for my research. . . 

However, as soon I got home I wrote it all down, and labeled the page “Goat Notes:”

(In case you’re wondering, this is in fact the same unfortunate creepazoid who gave me that playlist. . . Yeah. Him. But “Joel” is the name of the hero in this story, not the creepazoid. Must protect the guilty.)

Here’s one of the videos I watched. I promise, it’s not gory. It’s one of the sweeter (and cheesier) videos.

Enjoy!

The Craziest Girl on the Block!

So here’s a shocker. I’m a very shy, quiet, private person. (Go ahead. Take a minute to wrap your brains around that one. I’ll wait.)

Seriously, it’s true!

Okay, here’s the thing. On this blog, I get to be absolutely obnoxious. I love and adore you all, which does wonders for my inhibitions, and I have this illusion that since I write most of my posts from the privacy of my bedroom, nobody really sees them. Which is actually sort of true, but that’s not my point.

It also helps that there are two versions of me:

There’s Melina, the obnoxious me who kind of over shares.

“Have you met my good friend Melina? The craziest girl on the block. You’ll know her the minute you see her. She’s the one who is in an advanced state of shock.”

Then there’s Melissa, the “real” me.

“Modest and pure, polite and refined. Well-bred and mature.”

I’m lying. Kind of.

We’re both, as the song says, out of our minds.

Which, I’m going to blame on “writer crazy,” a rather unfortunate phenomenon I first learned about on this episode of Will Write For Wine. It was one of the first shows, which means that when I listened to it, I wasn’t a writer yet.

But now that I am, I’m a lost cause.

It started innocently enough. My first documented episode of the crazies was getting onto a bus, MetroCard in hand, and forgetting to swipe it. See, my characters were in the middle of an intense discussion, and seeing as they were hanging out in my head, instead of a bar or something, I was eavesdropping. I mean really, I had every right.

Let’s review what’s happened since then, shall we?

So far, I’ve admitted that I actually believe there are divas in my basement, and later went on to admit that when something goes wrong in my love life I get sort of excited because it makes them so happy.

Of course, there’s also the split personality (Melissa / Melina) thing.

(If you’re a regular here, I’m sure you have more to add.)

Kristan Higgins‘ post on The Sisterhood of the Jaunty Quills, in which she admitted to making out with her hand, got me thinking about all the other insane stuff that’s happened.

So, dear readers, over the next week or so, I’m going swallow my pride and admit to more acts of writer crazy. In return, I’m hoping you’ll share some of your stories too!

Stay tuned!

(Thank you to Inky Girl for use of her fabulous cartoon!)

Happy 5th Birthday Creature!

Note: Thanks to  the beauty of scheduled blog posts, this is going up on Creature’s actual birthday (5/19). Which feels odd, because I’m off dealing with Shavuot (and have probably had too much cheesecake) am not online. I’ll be back tomorrow night.

(Okay, so I messed up the scheduled blog post thing, so this is going up a day late. . .)

In January of 2007, when Creature was about 1 and a half, and before I’d even dreamed I’d ever actually write a novel, I woke up one morning suddenly wanting to write an essay for the NPR show This I Believe. So I did. Unfortunately, by the time I had the guts to send it in, the show had run its course.

But, in honor of Creature’s 5th birthday, I’m posting it here. Considering the way I usually talk about him, he deserves something nice from me today.

Enjoy!

I believe in having a dog. I believe in falling asleep with a dog snuggled in the space behind my knees, and waking up to doggie kisses. I believe in having a dog to drag me out of bed on cold January mornings, because I know that without a dog, there’s no way I’d find myself in Central Park at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday morning, admiring the light dusting of snow on the bare trees.

My dog also has a belief system. He believes in his right to kibble. He believes in going on walks through the park, and running into his neighbors, like Lucas, the cocker spaniel who lives down the block. He believes in saying hello to all the toddlers who squeal with delight when they see us walking down the street. He believes in taxi rides and trips to the Laundromat.

But most of all, be believes in coming home. He runs up the stairs of our walk-up and waits for me on the doormat. He wags his tail a million miles a minute as I unlock the door. He dashes into the apartment and rolls around on the couch (and snorts) to reclaim his territory, and then he finds a toy to play with.

A few weeks ago, I went to California to visit my mother. It’s the first time since I was 11 years old that there hasn’t been a dog in her house. It felt wrong. When I opened the front door, nobody danced around me as if I was the answer to their prayers. Still, I closed the door quickly and tightly, to keep the dog from running out. I was raised that way.

When I made my coffee in the morning, my hand would reach out instinctively to open the laundry room door to let the dog in or out. If I dropped a piece of food, I’d leave it on the floor for a minute, until I realized there was no dog around to appreciate my clumsiness. Worst of all, I felt the lack of comforting doggie sounds, like the lapping of water, the click-clack of furry paws on the hardwood floor, the jingle of dog tags, and the squeak of chew toys.

Having a dog isn’t always easy. When I come home from work and find the garbage all over my freshly washed kitchen floor, or a week’s worth of previously clean socks all over the living room (some with fresh holes in the toe), I glare into Hamudi’s eyes and threaten to post him on Craigslist. “One naughty, sneaky, gluttonous and slightly neurotic cocker spaniel needs home,” I imagine the ad would read. I see the guilt and shame in his eyes, and he sulks and walks away while I begin cleaning up.

But a few minutes later, I hear the squeak of a terrycloth bee. I look up, and see Hamudi playing contently. He catches my eye. We stare at each other. He tilts his head. The bee dangles from his mouth.

He knows he’s being cute.

I know I’m being manipulated.

But I forgive him, because I believe in having a dog.

I love you Hamudi! You belong to the most precious species on the planet. You make life so much sweeter. Thank you for the laughs, for the entertainment, for being such a great snuggler and for doubling as a hot water bottle.

And thanks for guarding me from the evil squirrel.

By the way, age 5 means Kindergarten! But you’re a prodigy. You graduated from Puppy Kindergarten when you were just a few months old. I’ll never forget how you flew across the floor (with the help of your ears, of course) when we yelled, “Hamudi! Come!” Such a good boy.

The residents of Park Slope thank you for patrolling and making sure nobody’s up to no good.

Just for today, I’ll refer to you by your real name. Happy birthday Hamudi!

And I have to give a shout-out to Tuck, the dog I grew up with. His loyalty and beauty put him in a class with Old Yeller, Old Dan and Little Ann, and Lassie.

Dear Readers: I’m curious. What would you write about for This I Believe?

P.S. I apologize if this post was so sickeningly sweet if gave you cavities. Obviously, I am not myself. Feel free to send me your dentist bill.

Better than a nightmare in my closet???

Some people have nightmares in their closets. Some people have boys in their basements (and not in a serial killer way).

A

My basement, however, has a diva infestation.

I’ve never seen them, but here’s a picture of their ancestors, The Nine Muses:

First, let me clarify something. I’ve never seen the basement in this building. I’m in Brooklyn, but the divas happen to live in my old building in Manhattan. That basement, I was very familiar with. It was haunted, and not in a good way.

The divas live in a private section of that basement that I never got to see. The divas are way more girlie than I. They decorate with daffodils, gerber daisies, and the color pink. Not to mention they’ve stocked up on champagne, tiaras, boas, and big squishy chairs. They have really fast Internet that never, ever, ever goes out. These divas sleep on mattresses with marshmallow like pillow tops and feather beds, with Egyptian cotton sheets (the thread count, of course being about 1,015).

They get Peet’s coffee delivered straight from Berkeley every morning. If it’s cold, they order white chocolate mochas. If it’s hot, they get vanilla freddos. But on most days, the temperature in their lair is perfect, so they just get regular coffee.

Incidentally, the delivery men are smoking hot.

Their taste in music differs from mine. Yet, they have control of my iTunes account, so sometimes I find songs by the Bangles and The Cure on my iPhone, usually as part of a playlist for the book I’m working on, and I listen, happily.

We do, however, agree that writing can’t happen unless at least one song from the most recent episode of Glee has been downloaded.

And they have a huge thing for glittery pens and flowery sticky notes.

Whatever works, right?

So that’s why my writing space is full of junk like this, and why my computer cover is pink.

Yes, that’s a tiara back there. Don’t mock. It’s from Purim, and it makes the divas happy.

Comment from my mom: You didn’t have such a huge thing for the color pink even when you were six. What happened?

I’m telling you, it’s the divas! I get them what they want, and do what they want, and in return, if they’re feeling happy, they shout messages up the stairs. Only I can hear them. (Although, now that I’m in Brooklyn, they have to shout a lot louder, and they’re complaining about throat pain. We certainly can NOT have that! So I’m talking to my landlord about getting some muscular moving men with rocking tan arms to move them to my current basement).

What kind of messages do they send? Here are a few gems:

“Have your hero and heroine have to help a goat deliver her kid! Oh yeah, and while your’e at it, make it a breech birth. BTW, the goat’s having twins. You don’t know Jack about goat births? No worries. Get thyself to YouTube.”

“Force your heroine to do karaoke! Trust us. And your hero just got a job in the Greek church teaching impossible middle schoolers who feel they have better places to be after school.”

“You’re naming your heroine Polyhymnia, after the muse of sacred hymns and poetry. Just go with it. You can call her Polly. You have our permission to joke about how she wants a cracker. You’re welcome.”

“Guess what?!? Your heroine’s ex just got engaged. Sucks to be her!”

“Your hero and heroine are in the process of removing each other’s clothes. For the first time. Bwah ha ha. Oh noes! The village is on fire! Did you hear us? There’s. A. Fire! They better get their clothes back on. NOW! So much for that.”

And they absolutely love when my heart is broken. They sit back on their divans, basking in the schadenfreude.

“You know that playlist that guy gave you? We know you want to delete it, but no! Your heroine has to listen to the one the song that breaks your heart, over and over again. Mel, don’t argue! We know that’s him playing bass. But in return, we’ll let you import a picture of said guy into your Scrivener file, and label it villain. You want to win NaNoWriMo, right? That’ll get you at least 7,000 words.”

(You can read more about this guy here.)

They were so right. I rocked NaNo for the third time, and wrote tissue worthy heartbreak scenes.

I’ve got to run. The divas are getting snappy. I’m supposed to be revising.

And there you have it. For the writers among you: What are your muses like? For the non writers among you: What inspires you and sparks your creativity?

It’s been a pleasure, as always! Bye!