November A Month of Blogs

So it’s National Novel Writing Month, but I’ve already got a book I’m working on so I thought I’d do something different. I thought I’d do one month of blogging. One month of blog blasts, long, short, whatever.

I’ve been in blog silence for a while mostly because I screwed up and posted an earlier blog where I did not conceal people’s identity as much as I should have. It ended up being embarrassing and I still haven’t recovered. It led me to all sorts of questions like “Is it ethical to blog?” and “Is it okay to blog about my life when it coincides with other people’s lives?” and “Are there just some things you shouldn’t write about?”

My answers were Yes, Maybe and Probably. Hence the no blogging.

But I miss blogging. I miss blogging the way you miss a friend who you used to be close to but because your lives have veered off in different directions, you just don’t talk/email/see each other anymore. It’s no one’s fault really, that you can’t connect anymore, but it still aches.

There have been so many little moments in these last six months or so where something funny would happen and I’d think “Oh! I can’t wait to blog!” But then I remembered that I couldn’t blog, because I’d screwed up and my blog and I were broken up. I couldn’t text my blog in the wee hours anymore. I couldn’t leave awkward messages. No more backrubs at four in the morning…

Wait. I might be confusing my blog with an actual relationship.

Luckily, I still have Kealoha to talk to and backrub with, so it’s not been a complete loss. But it has been an absence. A soft kind of loss.

What has happened in these last six months? So much and nothing at all. Struggles with my kids, my career, my parents. I said good-bye to my non-relationship with my dad. I’m redefining things with my mom. I wrote a novel. I had good things happen with my career. I started teaching a class at college. I gave up the class at college when things happened with my kids and my mom and I realized that though I wanted to do it all, I am not, in fact Wonder Woman, and I could not do even half of it. Kealoha and I went to Chicago. We had fun but it wasn’t enough vacation time. My kids are both struggling with anxiety and it’s affecting school so I’ve been at enough counselors’ offices that I could probably start working towards a new degree. I’ve cooked a lot. I started working out. I cried a few times in my closet. I cried while talking to my aunt on the phone, walking through my wilting garden and the stupid zucchini plants that even though I tried again to grow them, got infected with wormy beetles, and I cried because I really wanted to pick zucchini from my garden. Just once. I bought zucchini from the grocery store and farmer’s market, but it wasn’t the same. I actually avoided the farmer’s market because there were too many people, so I asked my husband to go, which he did, because he is kind. I laughed with him, but maybe not enough. There has not been nearly enough laughter in these six months. Did I say I wrote a novel? Because I did that too. One measly paragraph at a time. But I fought for each word and had some wonderful encouragement from a penpal who lives in Prague, and there’s a sort of magic to that. I fought over parenting issues with my ex. I tried not to explode because of stress. I exploded a little because of stress. I burped stress. I cooked some more. I drank wine. I gave up wine when I started to want to drink too much. Now I just drink a little bit of wine. I narrated great stories filled with romance, love, hate, pain, passion, anger…every book seeking to answer some loss or need and I thought “Huh. I get that. I do.” We’re all just trying to figure it out, and get through life page by page.

Every day. A new page.

This is why I have missed my blog.

Beware the Sugar Coma

Here is a conversation I had with my kids, Franz and Moxie, as Franz was about to consume this giant cupcake.

ME: Seriously? Are you going to eat that?

FRANZ: Yep. The whole thing.

ME: If you eat the whole thing, you're going to go into a sugar coma.

FRANZ: Sugar coma? What? That's not even real.

MOXIE: Oooooh, it's real all right. Alex, in my class, it was on Valentine's Day and he ate so much sugar that he started running around and around in a circle screaming his head off, just screaming and screaming and they sent him to the office. Eventually they called the ambulance and everything. Sugar. Coma.

ME: Wow. That sounds really serious.

MOXIE: It is. Super serious.

FRANZ: Maybe I'll only have half of it.

Happy Easter!

Dwarf Voices

I can't believe I forgot to cross post this! In case you don't follow me on Twitter or Facebook, here's a fun little recording I did when I was trying to come up with dwarf voices for the amazing Noble Dead Saga I'm recording. Luckily, this was just a trial recording and did not make it into the final audiobook. Enjoy!

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Friendship Camp

Here is a short nonfiction story. This was originally published in Midwestern Gothic, and is an excerpt from my (unpublished) memoir. I thought instead of posting it in the usual written way, I'd post my little narration of it. As always, thanks for reading...and for listening. https://soundcloud.com/tanyaeby-narrator/friendship-camp

On Quiddler and Trucker Slang

My friend J came over to have apple cake and play Quiddler. (That feels like a really British-type sentence. Just try saying it out loud with a good ol’ Eliza Doolittle feel. Oy! Apple cake and Quiddler with a cuppa.) Kealoha joined us. Here is our conversation:

J: So I’ve been reading a book about CB lingo from 1976.

(Only the briefest of pauses here, since having my friend J say something like this is not at all surprising.)

ME: Okay. That sounds good.

J: I don’t even know if they still use the terms, but it’s interesting. They probably use CBs, don’t they? You think?

(Ten minutes later…)

J: Gambling City!

ME: What?

J: That’s one of the terms. Now, what would you guess that is?

ME: Las Vegas, but wouldn’t it just be easier to say Las Vegas than try to figure out where Gambling City is. (pause) You know what WOULD be cool? To come up with new terms.

(Pause while I think.)

ME: Fluff circles!

Kealoha: Fluff circles?

ME: Yeah. (trucker voice) I’m going to get me some fluff circles.

Kealoha: (trucker voice) I’m going to head down to the Bunny Ranch and get me some fluff circles.

ME: Bah! Not THAT kind of fluff circles. Obviously, that’s lingo for pancakes.

Kealoha: Mmm. Fluff circles.

ME: Stop it.

J: It might not surprise you that truckers have a number of slang words for prostitutes.

ME: Please, please, J. Please go to a party immediately and use that as your opening line to people. Please do that.

We tried to come up with other words, but it got mixed up with the Quiddler words we were playing. Kealoha spelled “TEETH CLAP” and J responded that was something he certainly wouldn’t want to catch, and I agreed whole-heartedly. Truckers—and pretty much everyone from 1976 and beyond—should avoid getting TEETH CLAP.

Especially at the Bunny Ranch.

(See what I did there? Full circle, baby. Now THAT’S comedy.)

We've Been Watching Twin Peaks For Two Weeks...

Kealoha and I have spent the last two weeks watching Twin Peaks.

I should probably clarify. We’ve spent the last two weeks at bedtime, huddled around his iPad watching THE FIRST EPISODE in Twin Peaks until I grunt and fall asleep. We’ve been doing this for two weeks. Two weeks! We are forty minutes in.

I was a junior in high school when Twin Peaks was released. If there hadn’t been so much drama going on in my house, I’m pretty sure this is a series I would’ve loved. I mean it’s moody, and I know some random ‘little person’ shows up, and it’s a mystery and it’s created by David Lynch…so this should be part of my teenage memory. Alas, I missed out. So, I thought, I can recapture this part of my lost youth. That’s what Netflix is for, right? To enter the pop culture cool circle? I want to be in that circle.

But by 8:30…okay 8:00, I’m pretty much spent. I mean, my day is OVER. At the time when New Yorkers are just getting ready to head out for dinner, I’m in a tank top, shorts, snuggled in bed. Add into that being warm and full from a home cooked dinner (that I prepared like a good Midwesterner/octogenarian at 5PM), and I fight sleep.

What I can glean from these 40 minutes watched over the last two weeks is that…I don’t get it. I don’t get Twin Peaks. Now, granted, it could be that I’m watching it in five minutes snippets while trying not to fall asleep, and maybe I should try watching it when I wake up bright and bushy-tailed at 4AM. But I don’t know. There’s weird music and acting so over the top that it’s like an opera without the aria (and the fake tuberculosis).

Kealoha assures me that it’s genius and that I’ll get it if I give it a chance. I trust him, so I’ll keep trying. And I do highly enjoy the acid-washed jeans, the floppy early 90s hair, and the gigantic telephones. And I’m both looking forward and fearing when this little person makes his appearance.

But maybe…maybe…this is a circle I don’t belong in. Maybe I’m more of the X-Files weirdness, where Duchovny was comforting and without lipstick.

These are the deep thoughts that I have lately. Deep, deep thoughts.

I really need to get out of the house more often. Actually, I am getting out of the house tonight. I've put on makeup and everything. I just hope I don't look like this:

Sorry, Duchovny.

Narrator Spotlight on Eargasms Audiobook Reviews

Hello, all! I do have some new blog ideas swimming around in my noggin, but until then, please check out an interview that Eargasms Audiobook Reviews conducted. Scroll down through the books I've recorded to find the interview AND enter to win an "Audiobook Grab Bag". View it HERE.

So this happened while narrating a saucy romance

 

So this happened while narrating a saucy scene in a 'naughty' book. Probably rated R, so maybe don't invite the kiddos around to listen:

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So This Is Christmas

My son, Franz (10), and I were talking about Christmas, and vacation, and who’s coming over (everyone who shares our DNA) and if we’re exchanging gifts (fun t-shirts) and am I really going to wear that Sasquatch Santa sweater again (yes).

He seemed to be struggling with something.

Here is our conversation:

ME: What’s the trouble?

FRANZ: It’s just….I don’t know…I…you know…I just…

ME: It’s okay. Take a big breath and just spit it out. Except not literally. Please don’t literally spit. I have a gag reflex.

FRANZ: I know, Ma. Me too. (he takes a deep breath.) Okay…it’s just and I’m really sorry here, but the holidays…It’s like I want to see everyone and my family and I’m so excited but then they get here and I get, I don’t know, annoyed and I don’t want them here, but I do want them here, and then there’s so many people and the house gets all hot and I get uncomfortable and it’s noisy, but, like I want to spend time with everyone cuz it’s only once a year, but I also want space, like A LOT, and everyone sort of bugs me and it’s so unbelievably boring, like I can’t believe how boring it is and it’s something I really wanted but then when it’s happening…I…just…I’m sorta miserable.

(We let the words float around in the ether a bit.)

ME: Yeah. That pretty much sums up Christmas. That’s pretty much exactly how it is.

FRANZ: Really?

ME: Yep.

FRANZ: Huh. I thought it was just me.

***

I wanted to add: “Why do you think there’s so much drinking during the holidays? It’s not just to celebrate, it’s because we need to be drunk in order to figure out a way to hang out with our families. It’s called coping.” But I didn’t actually SAY that, because this was a ‘teachable moment’ and all.

Christmas. Bring it. Me and my Sasquatch sweater are ready.

Bodice Ripper vs Real Life

I’ve narrated (and read) a ton of romances. One of my favorite moments, a moment that clues you in to the fact that the guy is a keeper, is when the hero tucks a strand of hair behind the heroine’s ear. Now, I know, it’s a little cheesy, but it’s also soul-meltingly sweet. You can always tell a guy is good if animals love him and he tucks hair. It’s like one of those universal law things…like…you know…gravity.

Imagine my surprise when I recently experienced a moment like this—a moment from romantic fiction—IN MY REAL LIFE. With my husband, no less! (Of course, I already know he’s a keeper.)

We were in the kitchen the day before Thanksgiving and I was busy making a pie crust or something. I was telling him about my day when he cupped my face in his hands and said softly, “Shh. There’s something under your eye.” Now this wasn’t hair-tucking, but a man gently cupping a woman’s face while he sweetly brushes away a stray eyelash is…dare I say it…sexy.

Only he kept brushing.

And that eyelash or whatever wasn’t going anywhere.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you had something under your eye. It turns out it was just a skin tag.”

….. ……….. …………….. WHHhHhhhHhHHAAAAaaaTTT? Are you kidding me? It’s “Just a skin tag!!!”

My entire body convulsed with the sheer horror and I immediately ran upstairs to stare at myself in the mirror.

My life, most assuredly, is not a romance novel.

But my husband is still a keeper.

Skin tag, though. Gross.

Morsels

My husband and I had our blindfolds on, nervously waiting. This was not some class in tantric technique—we’re not flexible enough for that—but rather an evening of a seven-course meal, in the dark. We were to experience food in a new way, let our senses lead us. A waiter leaned in and whispered with some sultry accent in my ear: “It’s just in front of you. You will need to bring it slowly to your mouth.” I told my husband “I’m afraid it won’t fit in my mouth.”

“That’s what she said,” he replied and we giggled.

I opened my mouth, not wide enough at first, but then I adjusted. There was a slight roughness against my tongue, and the familiar crisp of bread. Slightly crusty on the outside, with a pleasant give to my teeth. Then a rush of the most amazing butter I have ever had. A mind-blowing butter. A butter of the gods. Rich, creamy, slightly salty. My body reacted immediately. I actually started to salivate. Or…that might have been the melted butter coursing down my chin. (Let’s hope it was the butter.) I chewed and atoms collided. Atoms are always colliding, I know, but this time I could feel them. “That’s the best toast I’ve ever had,” I said. When we removed our blindfolds, we saw the crostini in front of us, and the smooth layer of not butter, but of bone marrow. For a woman who waxes vegetarian, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “I think my brain just expanded,” I said. My husband laughed and said: “Feels kinda good doesn’t it?”

When speaking of love, we talk of our hearts and our souls and the people who share our space and life. We speak of the first kiss, the first time, the first loss. We know that dating is different somehow than marriage and a marriage somehow weaves two separate people into a single unit, that friendships are transformative, that children are maddeningly magnificent. But our hearts and minds also can be shaped by other things: experiences, travel…and food.

There have been pivotal moments in my life where I have felt a continental shift in my spirit caused by a mouthful of food. A shift in my ideas, my understanding, and sometimes of my passion.

I was raised in Michigan. My favorite childhood meal was Swanson’s Frozen Chicken, Mashed Potatoes, Corn and Brownie. The brownie was important. A close second for my favorite dinner was Chipped Beef, made by frying lunchmeat in butter, making a slurry of milk and flour, warming it all up and plopping it on toast. As a teen, my sister and I would make Hamburger Helper’s Tuna Pot Pie and hope that no one would want seconds so we could have it again for breakfast. My culinary landscape was populated by Nestle Quick and Tater Tot Casserole. I had never heard of curry. I lived in a world that was flat and populated by casseroles.

In college, I tasted sourdough for the first time. I did not believe my roommate when she told me the bread was perfectly good. “There’s nothing wrong with it! They make it this way on purpose!” I took a small bite and broke out into a sweat. “Why would anyone want sour bread?” I asked. I truly wanted to know. “It doesn’t make sense!” Later that night, I would dream of ripping the bread into little bites and popping it in my mouth so my tongue could wrestle with it. That bread brought a part of my taste-buds alive…a part of me brought to life that I didn’t even know existed. My roommate would later catch me with my own loaf of sourdough bread purchased at the Spartan store. We did not speak of it, but nodded in understanding.

I tried goat cheese and pesto on a brick oven pizza in Stratford, Canada during their Shakespeare festival. I ordered it because it sounded smart. I figured smart people watched Shakespeare and if they ate goat cheese, then I would eat goat cheese too. I sipped an Orangina with it and felt like I was drinking culture.

When I lived in Miami for a brief time with my then-fiancé, I tried plantain chips and Cuban coffee. My lips tingled. They ached. I asked for more. My boyfriend had a friend in grad school who wanted to cook us a traditional Indian meal. I thought that meant there would be something with Maize. I didn’t understand what chick peas were and cilantro tasted slightly of soap, but something in me quivered. It wasn’t indigestion, but a sort of joy unfurling, the way flower petals unfurl in the early morning. I tried spicy potato samosas, and poppadums that were like crisp paper with a hint of heat. Tator tots did not exist in my world anymore. I fell asleep to the rise and fall of lassis and chutneys, or picadillo and peppers.

Each new food I experienced challenged me to the core. It made me question my understanding of my environment and even myself. The world was far more vast than I expected and understood, and my own body was capable of feeling and experiencing things that I’d never thought existed. It was like seeing new colors in the rainbow, without being on LSD.

When I returned to Michigan, I worked in a high-end restaurant. Each night, we would try a new wine. At first I gagged on the taste. A chardonnay that was so oaky it creaked seemed to lodge in my throat. But gradually, as my palate grew accustomed to new universes, I could taste lemon, and cantaloupe, blackberries, cherries. I could taste summers and rain, and sometimes I would cry. Food…this kind of food and experience…could make me swoon. There should be more swooning in one’s life, I think.

I would taste beef wellington, tapas, pad thai and green curry so creamy and spicy that it could cure your cold. In France, I tried delicate macarons that were never too sweet, and salad with a dressing that combined mustard with shallots.

Food would become something that marked occasions: the crusty cornmeal pizza on the shore of Lake Michigan where we watched the meteor shower as the waves rolled against the sand; the Christmas where we ordered a Turducken with Cajun seasoning and got drunk on Mai Tais while the kids decapitated a reindeer piñata and pranced around with it a la Lord Of The Flies; the wedding where my husband and I created a menu of appetizers to appeal to the meat-eating-vegan-loving-gluten-free-carbo-loading-lactose-intollerant-lactose-loving mixture of our two different worlds colliding.

Food became a language for me. A way to connect not just with others, but with the tiny tendrils of my hungry little spirit. Food taught me to move past boundaries. To explore. To endure. To live fully and with joy.

I still make Tater Tot Casserole. It reminds my kids of camp, and it reminds me of where I started and who I was. I have a Pinterest board that is populated with recipes from every cuisine imaginable. They are my ticket to keep my brain expanding and reaching out, even as my waistline probably does the same. Good food, shared with a loved one, or on your own, is truly transformative.

This spring, we picked Morels in the lush Michigan woods and came home smelling of fresh leeks and trillium, those delicate white flowers. I sliced the morels in half and soaked them in a water bath laced with salt to draw out the bugs. I melted the butter, dried the morels, and slid them lovingly into the pan. I watched them tremble in the pan, shivering into a smaller morsel, collapsing into themselves, transforming from earth to delicacy before my eyes. When they were glistening and streaked with golden edges, I spooned them onto plates, and sprinkled them with salt. My husband and I ate them, our eyes wide open, nodding to each other that this, this simple act of eating, was a beautiful thing, and something for which to be deeply grateful.

On Annabelle and Unicorns

Here is a conversation between me and my 8-year-old daughter, Moxie.

MOXIE: Ma, why are you so excited about seeing that movie Annabelle? What’s it about?

ME: Ah. Uh. It’s about….it’s about unicorns…and bunnies…and they are having a SNOWBALL FIGHT with MARSHMALLOWS. And the…uhm…marshmallows are made in a teeny, tiny factory run by SQUIRRELS.

MOXIE: Wow. Can I see that movie?

ME: Nah. It’s rated R.

I told her that was the movie because I couldn’t tell her the movie was about this:

Only now she keeps telling everyone “I can’t wait to see Annabelle! It’s going to be the best movie ever!”

Could someone please make the squirrel-marshmallow-factory movie so I can take her to that and not the real Annabelle movie? I can’t afford therapy for her until she’s at least in her teens.

A Funny Thing Happened When I …E X P A N D E D

I’ve had a few hard weeks of narrating pretty much around the clock. This is due to the publishing push for Christmas books and a few books that had late manuscripts. This has meant I’ve been waking up at 3 or 4 AM, recording in my little booth, taking the kids to school, driving an hour to a studio and recording there, picking the kids up, doing mom stuff like cooking and homework and bedtimes, recording an hour when the kids are tucked in, and then waking up at 3 or 4 AM to start all over again. Plus, the same schedule on the weekends, because…weekends don’t exist when you freelance. But in all this craziness, I’m also trying to carve some time to take care of myself. You know, walk, and breathe, poop, get a pedicure, say hi to my husband. Important stuff. (Especially the pooping.)

The schedule is lightening and today, I met with a yoga instructor to go over postures and everything I’ve forgotten. As she gave me instructions to warm up “Move you right elbow under your left”, it took me a moment to get my body to respond. I have spent so much time being perfectly still and NOT moving, that there was an actual delay in every move she asked me to make. My brain knew what it wanted to do, but my body just couldn’t respond right away.

I felt sort like the Tin Man before his, uhm, lube job. Is that the right term? That can’t be the right term.

Take two: I felt like the Tin Man before Dorothy greased him all up and got him ready to perform.

Ahem.

I felt rusty.

I folded over, I swayed like a rag doll, I slowly remembered what side of my body was LEFT and what side was RIGHT. I tried to make myself breathe audibly instead of silently. (It’s hard to unlearn breathing quietly, and something I try to do when narrating.)

Then…well…she asked me to expand. Not in those words. She told me to stand and spread my legs out as far as they would go, then reach my arms out as far as they would go…and really R E A C H. Then I was to look up and breathe. Audibly. I did all of this. I stretched, I reached, I looked up, I breathed a breath of a goat…and then…I started to cry. Little tears. Maybe she didn’t notice, but inside I was shivering.

I have spent so much time trying to take up as little space as possible. In my booth, I try not to move, I sit quietly, I give myself over to the words in front of me (words that don’t belong to me).

But it’s not just in the booth. It’s…my LIFE. How, in life, I try not to take up too much space. I obsess over my increasing weight (hello, 41!), I try to be pleasant and quiet and meek. I try to smile and agree and not-rock-the-boat too much. I kvetch to my husband but in general, I try to be small.

What a revelation it was to open my body wide, to take up as much space as possible, to breathe annoyingly loud, to suck in all the oxygen I wanted to and expel all the crap from my lungs.

What happened today when I expanded?

I started to feel again.

And it was such a relief.

Foibles

It’s Fall and I wanted to buy a couple of shirts and maybe a cardigan that I could wear with jeans, for those days where wearing yoga pants just isn’t possible. So I was looking on Eddie Bauer (or somewhere) thinking I could find something comfortable with a soft fabric that if I’m recording, won’t make weird rustling noises when I move my arm. (The things you have to worry about when you’re a narrator. I can never wear corduroy again.)

I found a comfy looking cardigan and checked the reviews. “This cardigan is so stylish and comfortable!” One review said. That sounded promising. The next review promised that “You can wear this sweater everywhere and you’ll look fashionable.” Okay. Another plus. I want to look fashionable. I want to be comfortable!

There were dozens and dozens of glowing reviews mentioning comfort, style, and ease of wear. That last one seemed a little weird. Then I looked at the ages of all the reviewers. There wasn’t one reviewer under the age of 70.

I thought, huh. So these are my people. These are my fashion sisters. I have now slipped into the time of my life when the ease of wearing a cardigan is heralded.

I didn’t buy the sweater. I’m not ready yet.

My son woke up with a cough and a slight fever. I sat with him on his bed while he drank juice that I snuck cough syrup into. It was two in the morning and I was struggling to stay awake. I got him a snack, rubbed his back, then gave him the iPad to watch an episode of Fool Us, a magic show with Penn & Teller. After awhile I said, “So, are you okay now? Can I go back to bed, or do you need me here?”

My son thought for a moment and then said, “You know, ma, it’s really comforting having you at my feet.”

Ah. Yes. I stayed.

One of the new shirts I bought, is a fitted button-up plaid sort of thing. It makes me feel like a soccer mom who is about to go camping (even though my kids don’t like sports and we don’t camp). I wore it on Friday and everywhere I went I felt like people were staring at me. An older woman looked at me and gasped. Men smiled. One winked. Later, I looked at myself in the mirror. The shirt is fitted in just a way that my breasts look ENORMOUS. I mean, I am kinda busty, but this shirt makes me look like I could be the wet nurse to a village of babies. In fact, I sorta felt like babies were stalking me the way bunnies stalk this lady:

Could be worse, I guess. I’m wearing the shirt again next week.

Foibles. I call myself @Blunder_Woman on Twitter for a reason. But now…at 41…I’m no longer really embarrassed by my little snafus. It just doesn’t feel like a well-lived day if I haven’t embarrassed myself at least a little.

Two TRUE Ghost Stories

Because I’m grumpy and bloated and pretty much just sitting around eating chocolate and casseroles (blog on casserole cooking to come), I asked readers to come up with some words that I could blog about. It’s just So Much Effort thinking up things myself. In the first sentence alone, I mentioned three of the words, so I feel like my work here is done. Still….

One of the words was submitted by my dear college friend Rae. We were roomies a long time ago, when we took ourselves very seriously and wore dark red lipstick and went to plays and acted in plays and musicals and talked about love and heartbreak. So, pretty much we’re exactly the same…maybe just a little softer. The word she suggested was GHOSTS.

I have spent a fair amount of my time obsessed with the idea of ghosts. I love ghost stories and scary movies. I love good stories in general…but GHOST stories…there’s just something about them. They seep into your skin, infect your subconscious, call to you in your sleep. Also, when you watch a good scary movie, they can make your husband scream like a little girl and you will have to comfort him and this will make you feel like a powerful, modern woman. Uh…Hypothetically speaking.

I have only had two direct ghost experiences. The first happened when I was in my early twenties and I felt a peculiar heat and tingle in the center of my lower back. This sensation happened every now and again and I was certain that it was because someone from Beyond was trying to get me to listen. Like, I was pretty sure that there was a message coming to me and the heat and prickling sensation was just the static of Afterlife tuning.

I listened…and listened…and then realized that the peculiar sensation was from the tattoo I got. They’d shaved my lower back because I’m a hairy mother fucker, and the hair was starting to grow back. So. Uhm. Not the Afterlife.

The other true story was in my rickety old apartment with my roommate Keeley. The house had a huge lightning rod and just felt plain creepy. (The landlord was old and wore super-shorts that were so tight we couldn’t help but notice his ENORMOUS balls sausaged in there. I mean, we’re talking, ELEPHANTINE).

In the apartment, Keeley and I heard strange things, saw shifting shadows, felt weird vibes, and I’m pretty sure there was some moaning one night. Of course, the house was filled with theater people so who knows WHAT was the cause of all that moaning.

One night, I came home to an empty house, went into my room, and felt IT. A presence. A disturbance. Then I noticed that the clocks in my room WERE TURNED AROUND. No one had been in the apartment and I knew Keeley had been at work all day and was, in fact, still there, since I’d just seen her there. So I did what any normal, well-adjusted female with the tendency to be dramatic would do. I. Fucking. Freaked.

Keeley later confessed that she’d given her dad keys to the apartment and he snuck in and moved everything around.

Come to think of it, he was probably hiding in my closet moaning. (And if that’s true, I’m truly sorry to think of what he might’ve found or witnessed in there.)

So. My two true ghost stories aren’t really ghost stories at all. I DO believe in ghosts, but I think most ghosts exist in our own psyche in truly terrifying ways.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll finally have my real ghost-encounter. After all, I’m off to New Orleans in a few weeks to see Rachel and one of our other college roomies. If we don’t encounter ghosts, we’ll at least look really scary in the morning after a night on the town.

This Morning At Starbucks...

To thank my babysitter for helping out, I asked her if I could pick her up something from Starbucks. She texted: “I will have a tall skinny vanilla ice tea latte”. So I went to Starbucks and I asked for a tall skinny cappuccino for myself…and then things took a turn. Here is the transcript of our conversation:

ME: I’ll have a tall cappuccino but with low-fat milk and then I need….

(Pause to pull up text and read it)

ME: A tall skinny vanilla iced tea latte.

BARISTA: Uhhh…

MANAGER: Uhhhh….

ME: What’s wrong? Is everything okay?

MANAGER: What does she want again?

ME: A tall. Skinny. Vanilla iced tea latte.

MANAGER: That’s what I thought.

BARISTA: See…uh…

MANAGER: That’s not a thing.

BARISTA: She’s right. It’s not a thing.

ME: It’s not a thing?

BOTH: Nope.

ME: Is that possible? She ordered something that doesn’t exist?

BOTH: Yep. It doesn’t exist. It’s not a thing. Like, At. All.

MANAGER: I mean, maybe what she wants is a coffeelatte or a chailatte but you can’t have an icedtealatte. And there’s not vanilla in the iced tea. It’s just something that’s not…there. I mean, we could figure something out, but I’m not sure I’d recommend that.

ME: Uh…

BARISTA: Text her back. Does she drink coffee cuz the lattes are really popular.

ME: I don’t know. She’s my babysitter. I don’t know her drinking habits.

BARISTA: Just text her.

ME: Okay.

(Text text text. Waiting signal. “I like both!” response.)

ME: Okay. She likes both, but probably not together. Like not a coffeechailatte.

BARISTA: Uh….

ME: That was a joke. Just fix her whatever you think is popular. Because popularity is important.

(The Manager looked at me questingly, wondering if I was still joking. I gave her a slight nod.)

MANAGER: The latte then. She’ll love it.

When I got home I told the babysitter about the scene. “Weird,” she said. “It’s just iced tea with a little milk and vanilla.”

Huh. After my conversation with the baristas, I thought she was asking for magic.

##

StoryBundle and Meet Martin Kee

Yesterday, I introduced you to Jack Wallen, one of the writers for this month’s StoryBundle (a horror collection which my book TUNNEL VISION is also a part of). Today, meet Martin Kee, writer and also curator of this bundle.

Meet Martin Kee

1) Your book is included in StoryBundle’s horror collection. What draws you to horror?

I don't typically outline what I write, so as the book progresses, it seems that things just tend to gravitate in that direction. There's a sort of inexorable truth to horror, that idea that we all, at some point in time, will end. It's a universal constant. Things decay. So I guess the more I write on a certain subject, whether it be about dark matter or parasitic fungus, or robots, or graphene, there's always a deeper horror there at the bottom, a deeper truth that a lot of people don't like to think about. That truth usually lies in bad things happening to people you care about.

2) Tell me a little bit about the book in the collection.

BLOOM is essentially two stories, taking place in two very different places, in very different times. One story tells the tale of a young man whose childhood friend suffers from a brain tumor. Every time she meets him, she doesn't remember who he is, so Tennyson has to essentially reintroduce himself. But as bloom, a parasitic fungus, begins to overtake the coasts and sweep inland, he loses touch with her. Determined to find her, Tennyson sets out to delve into what the world has become in order to be reunited with his best friend.

The second story, one that shares the same space as Tennyson's, is that of Lil'it. She isn't entirely human. She's smaller, with odd tumors on her back in the shape of wings. She's referred to as feh which is just one sound short of spitting. In her world, she is essentially vermin, handled like a poisonous serpent. This is due largely to the fact that she is able to secrete custom prions and viruses in her salivary glands. When she is sold off to a wealthy land owner, she makes a play at freedom and finds that it's much more complicated than simply running away.

The two stories are related to one another in spite of how different they seem, and it's up to the reader to find that connection.

3) Do you have anything else published?

I do! My first novel, A LATENT DARK, was in a horror bundle back in 2012, and I've just released a short science fiction novella on Amazon called GLEAN, which is the beginning of a series.

Both books can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Martin-Kee

I also write short stories and content for video games.

4) What really scares you?

Shame, I think. Disappointment. I don't like to disappoint people, so I often sink into some dark places worrying that I might screw things up for folks I care about. I suppose that's an odd thing to be scared of, but there it is. Now, of course, disappointment comes in many forms. It could be not winning the lottery, or having your spouse cheat on you. I think I could probably survive those things pretty well. But knowing that I might have lost the trust and faith of the people I love... well, it would be hard to live with that, especially looking at the long road ahead to regaining that trust.

Death, surprisingly, doesn't really scare me much aside from the physical desire to survive. I mean, everyone does it eventually, right? And there are far worse things to worry about. I think worse than death, would simply being erased and forgotten, to look back from my death bed and realize nothing mattered and nobody would remember me. That seems much more terrifying, not so much the void, as in the wasted time. I mean, I'm 42 years old. If I died tomorrow, I hope I'll have more to show for it than a level 70 druid in WoW.

5) What’s your writing process like?

I'm one of those "gardeners" you hear about. I start with some very vague plot points and sort of explore as much as I can. It's a much more enjoyable process to me than outlining first, but it's messy. I do a lot of rewrites, and sometimes don't even really know what the book is about until the 8th draft or so. It's time consuming as well.

That's not to say that I don't outline though. I do, just afterwards. Thats' where I chop the book up and put all the pieces back together in the right order, then go through and pick apart every chapter, then every paragraph, then every sentence. Usually the rewriting process is more fun and more involved than writing the original draft.

6) Where can people find out more about you or see more of your work?

Well there's my author page: http://www.amazon.com/Martin-Kee

And I also have a poorly maintained blog: http://marlanesque.com/ where I sometimes go to vent or ramble. There's a lot of flash fiction up there as well, along with links to anything new I might have published. I don't live in any delusions that I am a blogger by any means. Most of my ideas end up in my books instead of on the site.

Then there's Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/martinkeeauthor which is, you know, Facebook. I post updates there maybe more than I do on the blog, because it gets the most traffic. You can follow any of these with Likes if you want to see what I'm up to as I shuffle around in my comfy pants, making things up.

##

Check out the bundle by clicking on the above picture, and/or leave a comment below to be entered into a drawing to win the entire bundle. Winner chosen August 1st.

StoryBundle AND Meet Jack Wallen

I am so excited that my collection TUNNEL VISION AND OTHER STORIES FROM THE EDGE is included in a horror package offered by StoryBundle. Basically, you pay what you think the package is work, and get up to nine different books from different independent writers. So you’re supporting indie authors and getting a sample of work that you might never have found on your own. Plus, you can even donate part of your price to a nonprofit. It’s a win win win. Now, usually, I write comedic things, but there is a darker side to me. It’s reflected in Tunnel Vision if you’ve read it. 1930s. Insane Asylum. Baby born in the tunnels and raised by the inmantes there.

And I love a good ghost story.

Here’s some information about another writer whose work is included in the StoryBundle package. Meet Jack Wallen…and check out both of our books in this bundle by clicking HERE. You have only 20 days to grab the deal!

 INTERVIEW WITH JACK WALLEN

1) Your book is included in StoryBundle’s horror collection. What draws you to horror?

I was originally drawn to horror as a young boy. A local horror show, Nightmare Theater with Sammy Terry, drew me in and never spat me out. Watching that campy horror host not only made horror fun, but made it cool.

As an adult, I believe horror is one of the most cathartic genres of fiction you can read. In the safety of your own home, under the covers in your bedroom, you can open up a book of horror and dive into fear without worrying for your life. Your heart races, you might break out into a sweat, and you might wind up having nightmares...but in the end, you wake up alive.

2) Tell me a little bit about the book in the collection.

This book came from a rather dark place in my career as a writer. I wrote the novel as a reaction to some of what I saw in the publishing industry. The story centers around a has-been writer desperate to gain back the fame that once filled his boudoir with prostitutes and his nose with cocaine. In the process he winds up in league with The Nameless – a demon from Hell who has a very different path set out for our anti-hero.

This book has been one of my proudest achievements, as it was compared to the early works of my idol, Clive Barker.

3) Do you have anything else published?

Yes. In fact, my goal for the end of this year is to have more than twenty books published. The current list includes the following series (listed in series – if applicable):

The Fringe Killer Series

A Blade Away

Gothica

Endgame

The I Zombie Series

I Zombie I

My Zombie My

Die Zombie Die

Lie Zombie Lie

Cry Zombie Cry (due August 21^st, 2014)

T-Minus Zero

Zombie Radio

The Last Caskset

The Shero Series

Shero

Shero II: Zombie A GoGo

Shero III: Death by Cosplay

The Nameless Saga

Hell’s Muse

The Nails of Calvary (due October, 2014)

Screampark

Klockwerk Kabaret

Among You (due out Sept, 2014)

The last three novels are currently stand-alone (in the case of Among You – yet to be released). I plan on writing the second book in the Klockwerk Kabaret series near the end of the year. It was my first steampunk novel and it made me fall in love with the genre.

As you can tell, I try not to pigeonhole myself into one genre (well, sub-genre...as most of what I write is rather dark). My biggest selling books are my zombie novels – and that is clearly my first love – but I tend to write what I feel at the moment. I also prefer not to write two novels from the same series or genre in a row. This has worked out well for me because it ensures, when I set out to write a new book in a series, I am completely thrilled to be back with that particular story.

4) What really scares you?

Failure. The idea of failing is ever present in me...it has been since I was a young boy. Of course, failure encompasses so much (financial, social, professional, personal). I’ve never been afraid of the usual suspects (spiders, snakes, tornadoes, horror...). To this end I do everything I can to always stay ahead of the game – be it my skills, network, etc.

5) What’s your writing process like?

I absolutely adore the process of writing. My wife once asked me a question: “If you couldn’t make a living as a writer, would you still do it?” I answered without hesitation...yes. The act of creating is so important to my existence (I was a professional actor for twenty years).

I generally take about two months to write my first drafts. After that I go back through the manuscript to catch anything I missed. Once that is complete, I send the draft to beta readers. I differ with most authors in that I prefer betas to see the early version so they can not only get a feel of the story in its rawest form, but make suggestions that I can then either accept or reject before the manuscript goes off to my editor. After me and my editor go back and forth, the manuscript is then sent to a proof reader. During this process I work on designing a cover and marketing material for the book.

6) Many of your books are about Zombies. What is it about zombies that pulls at you?

First and foremost, zombies are such a wonderful metaphor for humanity. We are all so very close to becoming drones in the corporate world – our lives on autopilot for the majority of our waking hours. I also love the fact that the zombie has yet to be confiscated and ruined by Hollywood. You’ll never find sparkling zombies (unless you count the strippers in Zombies Vs. Strippers). Finally, the zombie is the one creature that elicits end of the world scenarios and imagery. That’s powerful stuff there. Humanity may well be just a madman away from the apocalypse, so the genre can be very visceral and immediate for readers. The apocalypse is something that could happen – the veil between fiction and non-fiction grows very thin.

7) Do you watch The Walking Dead? Side question: have you perfected a zombie walk of your own to blend in if the apocalypse comes?

I do and I have. I straddle the fence on The Walking Dead. On one side I love the show and how so often they focus on the simple act of survival. On the other hand, I worry they spend a bit too much time on the romance aspect. I’m not one hundred percent sure the apocalypse is the best time for booty calls and hookups. But then...we’ll all need those reminders that we are still human. But lovers of zombies and apocalyptic fiction would rather see less lovin’ and more survivin’.

My zombie walk? I don’t necessarily think all zombies will drag one of their legs behind them (unless they spiraled into the zombie abyss with a broken leg). My take on the zombie walk is to imagine your brain having just enough power to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. Stand outside of any given bar at closing time and you’ll see the zombie walk to perfection.

8) Where can people find out more about you or see more of your work?

You can check out my web site http://www.jackwallen.comBlog September 2013 through 2014.docx and get information on all of my books (as well as my blog). You can also visit the following:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/author.jackwallen

Twitter: @jlwallen

Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+jackwallen/posts

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004MZWR3W

I also host a weekly podcast (a character from my I Zombie series) called Zombie Radio: http://www.zombieradio.org

THE BUNDLE:

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment and you're entered in to WIN this bundle for free! Winner is chosen August 1st.

Mommy Screams A Lot AKA What Happened At The Fireworks

When you call yourself quirky, it’s really just a way of saying that you might have a few issues that are hopefully endearing. I know this because I call MYSELF quirky. One of my many issues is that I jump at big noises. There are lots of reasons for this. You could say a few traumatic things happened to me in childhood. OR maybe it was my brother hiding out in his treehouse with his BB gun, always on the lookout, possibly for me. Maybe it was the crazy girl down the block who wrapped up a ventriloquist dummy with rope and said that at night if I heard anything, it was probably because the dummy came alive and was coming for me. Or maybe it’s because I was in New York on 9/11 and that whole thing made me jumpy. Whatever. Pick your poison.

Usually, I handle all this really well. (At least I think I do; Kealoha just shrugs.) When there’s a thunderstorm, and if we’re asleep, I gasp awake, grab the covers and run down to the basement. Kealoha usually doesn’t even notice. He’s a very deep sleeper.

But. BUT. You can imagine that I might not be the best person to have with you during the 4th of July. Every time a firework goes off, I jump/scream, feel my heart thump against my rib cage, mutter an obscenity or two, and settle down just in time for another one to explode. When the crowd goes “Oooooh, Ahhhhhh, Oooooo” I go “Ugh! Eek! Muther fucker, really? REALLY? WHAT IS THE POINT OF EXPLODING THINGS? WHY IS THIS FUN? I FEEL LIKE A LITTLE MANNEQUIN IS SHOOTING AT ME WITH A BB GUN! ARRRRGGGGGHH!”

Ahem. Anyway. So.

The kids wanted Kealoha and I to take them to fireworks.

KEALOHA: It’ll be fun!

ME: Uhhhhh….

We went to the fireworks.

All evening as dusk slowly descended, I felt a boa constrictor wrapping around my chest. I should’ve brought wine. I should’ve taken an anti-anxiety pill. But I thought I’d be fine. If I could find some French fries, I could float away on the bliss of vinegar and oil and salt and deep-fried happiness. But the food trucks were not selling fries! No! They were only selling giant polish sausages, and I can’t eat that in public without feeling dirty.

Night fell. I was pretty sure I could see Sauron’s Eye flickering in the distance.

Then the explosions started, and thus I began: “Arh! Eek! FUhhhh….dge!”

Here is the rest of the scene:

MOXIE: Mommy screams a lot! I’m going to call that firework the Mommy Screams A Lot firework!

ME: Ach! Ohmygod. My heart! My HEART!

KEALOHA: That one looks like a fireball. I’m going to call that one Fireball!

KEALOHA, MOXIE, AND FRANZ: Ooooh, Ahhhh, Ooooo!

ME: Eek! Ow! NnoooOOoOO!

MOXIE: There’s Mommy Screams A Lot! That one’s my favorite! It makes Mommy jump.

FRANZ: That one looks like a pork chop!

KEALOHA: Pork chop? Huh. I think that one is my favorite.

ME: How. Long. Does. This. LAST?

At the finale, I’m pretty sure I passed out. When I came to, we gathered our stuff and walked with everyone else into the overcrowded parking ramp. By the time we got out an hour later, I’d calmed down remarkably. The kids want to go again next year.

I told them “We’ll see”.

Rosie The Riveter Writes An Email...and other words

I’m in Iowa City for part of their Summer Writing Series. They have workshops in all sorts of writing (poetry, fiction, nonfiction) and week-long or weekend sessions. This week I’m here for their first ever Round Robin Session where each day you study a different type of writing. I thought it’d force me to ‘look outside myself’ for a bit, and it is. There was a presentation on poetry and we were encouraged to write a prose poem using a celebrity or historical figure, but put them in an everyday setting. Here’s what I came up with:

Rosie The Riveter Writes An Email

Rosie the Riveter sits down to write an email. It feels pointless, to strong-arm her ex this way, but what can she do? Words are her weapons, the way she drills. There is no ‘hello’ no ‘dear’ nor even his name. She starts with How could you? How? She lets the words rest and breathe a bit. Sips her latte. Adjusts her kerchief. Flexes her toes. Hovers over the delete key then pounds and pounds and pounds. She won’t win her war with him. Not this way. She raises her fist to their picture on the mantel and gets back to work.

Then in a three-hour class, I studied poetry with Sabrina Orah Mark and she had us read and savor poetry. Then we wrote our own pieces. The prompt was to take a phrase and deconstruct it. I’ve spent so long writing bad poetry (see here) that I had to flip my brain to try to write something serious.

Here’s that one:

I do not think I can say “Let it go” Without singing. It wasn’t always a song. It was an order. A command.

“Let” plush lips, a soft whine, bitten off by the teeth “It” a single breath, reducing the enemy to tin soldiers standing side by side. “Go” then the breath, the release, the parted lips followed by a kiss.

Let. It. Go. The phrase itself a mirror of the action.

It is not just a song. It is an anthem.

Change, then, the words. Ruffle the sheets. Wrinkle the shirt. Let “Go” be first. Breathe and moan, then spit. Force the enemy away. Go, let it.

Or take one more step. Drop the bite entirely. Exist in a breath a whisper a prayer.

Let the one word stand: Go. Draw it out.

Or, drop the word altogether, like stepping from a wet suit. Leave it heavy at your feet. Emerge. Breathe. Be a song.

I don’t know if my little poems are good or not, but it was fun to get those old writing muscles flexing. And it’s nice to be reminded how much I love language, and its music, and the beauty of giving emotion shape and form.

Today…nonfiction.

Oh, baby!