Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Pushing through the Fear

So it happened. I'm 30,000 words into my manuscript and the fear is creeping in. It's a stupid idea, I tell myself. No one will ever want to read it. Who are you to think you can write a book and people will actually pay to read it?

I get these thoughts in my head and it's like quicksand. The negativity happens when I design a book or sign up to compete in a triathlon with a longer distance or when I see a cute guy I like. Anytime I try to stretch myself, it comes over me.

I know some of these thoughts are wrong, but I also know some are probably true. I've attempted things in the past that I've failed at. Though I'm usually good about pushing through the fear but with writing a book, it's different. For one thing, it's a crapload of work down the toilet if I suck. For another, I have a lot more pride wrapped up in my writing than I do my triathlons.

So here's the question: How do you know you've got a good idea for a book? How do you know it's worth pursuing? How do you know you don't suck?

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Real Cost of Traveling

In honor of my upcoming trip to Vegas (if you have to turn thirty, why not do it in Vegas), I've compiled a list of things I've lost in the past year, most of which I lost while traveling.

Snow skis (Left next to my car at Solitude. What kind of person finds skis and doesn't take them to lost and found? You'll burn for that one.)

Drivers license (Lost and found in Disneyland, but not before I had to board a flight home. Thank you to the honest people of Disneyland.)

Pillow (Lost somewhere between my brother's house and my bedroom. Last seen in the passenger seat of my car.)

Favorite earrings (At the Jazz game and we didn't even win.)

Thumbdrive (No idea).

I'm curious to see what I don't come how with. What's the worst thing you ever lost?

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

If You're too Drunk to Read this Sign

Going to the local demolition derby this last weekend reminded me of a problem I had. You see I used to have a sign on my back that said, "If you're too drunk to read this sign, hit on me." Something about me just turned drunk men on (or really white trash guys).

I first noticed this phenomenon in high school at a rodeo. We were sitting in front of man so drunk that his friends had bets on when he was going to pass out. He managed to slur, "Some of these girls in front of us have nice butts, especially the brown haired one. (I was with all blondes and redheads.)

Or there was the time, I explained this problem to my coworkers and they didn't believe me. I promptly went to the bank and was propositioned in the ATM line by a choice redneck with a mullet driving an old clunker. He had to lean out of his car window to yell across the lines, "Where you going after this?"

In case you think this is something I bring on myself by the way I dress or act, this effect continued while on my church mission. West Texas is ripe with drunk guys so I shouldn't have been surprised.

But after not getting hit on at the demolition derby, I thought that maybe I had finally removed the sign until last night. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home from the temple wearing a conservative dress and heels (it was the temple after all). At the store a sixty-some guy with short jean shorts and one tooth chased me down to say, "Girl, you're a throwback to the old girls, and that's a compliment."

Oh yeah, I still got it.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Breaking the Rules

To support Elana Johnson and her debut novel Possession, I'm participating in a blog tour about the first time I broke the rules.

I stand crouched, hiding behind a stack of boards next to a partially constructed house. My breath is coming gasps, difficult to control. But I must control them, otherwise he will find me.

I can't believe he chased me. What I did was innocent enough and certainly didn't warrant this cat and mouse game in the darkness. A friend is in the basement of the empty house just a few feet away. He's peering out of what will be a window but is now just an empty hole. We both listen, dreading the sound of our pursuer's footsteps.

Whether my patience gives out or I think I'm safe I don't know, but I take off running. My friend can hear my soft footfalls retreating but also the heavier tread of our pursuer behind me. I hear nothing. After about thirty yards, I make it to the back of a pickup and hurdle the tailgate.

"Go, Dad, go," I yell to the driver. He takes off. It's house number three on our doorbell ditching night.


Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Benefits of Beer: Part II

So before you read this, you must promise not to tell my grandma. Promise? Okay, you can keep reading.

So after my huge success with killing snails via beer, my mom decided to give it a go. Feeling a little embarrassed, she grabbed a random can of beer at the store and took it the checker. It rang up up as six dollars. Now she's not too experienced at the price of beer but this seemed a bit extreme to her.

When she queried the clerk, it turned out she was being rung up for an entire six-pack. They sent a bagger back to grab another beer, but he returned with lite beer. By this time my mom was too embarrassed to request a non-lite beer (am I spelling that right?). She quickly paid for her beer and fled the store.

Long story short: snails (like men) do not drink lite beer. Now she has to go back for her second beer.