Home Makeover

We cleaned out a couple closets, shuffled some furniture around, and freed up space for Andrew's crib and other assorted nursery furniture. Of course, we don't have said furniture as yet, but it's good to know we have the space for it. The one unfortunate consequence of all the reorganization was having to put this computer, our on-line computer shoved up in the corner of our bedroom right next to my side of the bed. Doesn't look all that grand, but it fits, it allows Mark to play his poker on-line whenever he wants without having to time it around Andrew's naps, and did I mention it freed up a lot of space in the study/nursery? Sigh. We'll get used to it. Afterall, it's still a lot better than the strange partitioning and furniture arrangements we had in the studio we first lived in together. Of course, I'm just eager to start filling all that great space we freed up with Drew's things. It's sort of the last domino to fall in realizing that, yes, I really will be a mother with a newborn in a few short months.

Book Meme *Grumble*

I thought I was going to avoid getting officially tagged by the dreaded book meme that's been running rampant throughout all of blogdom. Alas, Joel was kind enough to end that hope. :) I tend to bow out of most of the memes I see as they are either very long or very repetitive or make me come up with numbers and such that I just don't want to do, as is the case with this one. But here goes anyway...

1. How many books do you own?
I honestly have no idea. Somewhere on the order of 200 or 300. It would be more, but I didn't read too much growing up unless it was school-related (translation: I didn't read anywhere near as much as I do now), and the books I did read have long since found there way into garage sales, boxes in my mother's garage, or used book stores. I guess it's rather impressive that the 200 or 300 books I do have are the result of only two or three years worth of buying and collecting. Does not bode well for bookshelf space in the future.

2. What was the last book you read?
Just finished Holly Lisle's Last Girl Dancing this morning. Good, quick read. A book you can read while you're sloggin your way through a larger tome, like I am. I did enjoy it, even more so because I figured out the whodunnit pretty darn early. Been a while since I beat the MCs to the solution by a good twenty pages or more. Nice to feel smart while my brain is finding new ways to blonde out on me during pregnancy.

3. What was the last book you purchased?
Also Last Girl Dancing. The next book will be Harry Potter. The book before LGD was MJ Rose's The Halo Effect, read that one during my trip out to Chicago in airports and planes.

4. Name five books that mean a lot to you.
To Kill a Mockinbird by Harper Lee--came face to face with my first real, live bigot in my ninth-grade english class because of that one, taught me a lot.
The Ruins of Ambrai by Melanie Rawn--my first fantasy read, during my first summer on my own after college, completely pulled me into that world.
StarDoc by S.L. Viehl--my first SF series that I started and completed, with the possible exception of L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time books (can't remember if I finished those); those books taught me a lot about what SF could be and how I wanted to write it.
The Cell and Virology--academic books by various professors whose names I'll never remember even while staring at the books, talk about unlocking the cool and mysterious present in and around us every single day (yes, I'm a geek)
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron--I highly recommend this book for anyone struggling with creativity, it's amazing and really helps you reconnect with what's important to you.

5. Tag 5 more people.
Seeing as how I'm probably one of the very last bloggers to do this, I'm not going to bother. I'm pretty sure that all the blogs I read have already done this one, and I'm the sort of person to stop chain letters because I don't want to bother anyone else. :)

Seriously, the meme has been in my mind for a while, making me think about all the books I've read and how I organize and handle the ones on my self, etc. Good stuff for an aspiring author to ponder now and again.

Flashback

This morning, very groggy, I turned on the live coverage of the Tour de France. The very first thing out of Al Trautwig's mouth was something about our hearts being with everyone in London. All of a sudden, I felt like it was the morning of September 11, 2001 all over again. That morning, my hand paused in slapping the snooze button when the DJ said something about the traffic being OK despite the airport being closed. I thought it was strange that the airport would be closed, hit snooze so Mark could catch a few more Z's, and went to the TV to investigate. And that was when I saw the Towers. This morning, I immediately switched from OLN to NBC just to see Bush's somber face denouncing terror. Switched to CNN to finally get the lowdown on what had happened.

It's strange coming into news like this when things are just old enough that they aren't repeating frequently the basics of what happened, but just new enough that they don't have a whole lot in the way of details. Gives you the feeling of being very, very lost. You're watching a tragedy unfold, you have no idea what it is really, why it happened, and you just can't seem to connect with it in any logical way that let's you move on for even a few seconds to get the day going.

Are the London bombings a sign that the war on terror is working or failing? Will we ever figure out what our yardstick is for this thing?

These Dreams

There are a few long-shot possibilities that would allow me to not have to work after Drew is born. And I do mean long-shot. On a whim, I decided to write down those possibilities. It's one of those visualization things. You know, one of those 'if you build it he will come' kind of things. (By the way, I despise that movie; not as much as It's a Wonderful Life, but damn close.) Our chances at living the dream of stay-at-home motherhood are as follows:

1. I get a publishing contract
2. Mark wins a poker tournament
3. Mark's research moves flawlessly and quickly toward a super finish and he gets a scientist position before the end of the year

We actually have the least control over the last one, if you can believe it. Mark's doing everything he can and more to get his thesis project to the finish line. Now it's just a matter of things going the way they're supposed to in test tubes. And I know all too well how fickle science can be.

While I don't have anything near ready to send out for an agent or publication, I will try my luck at an "American Idol" spoof that a local writers org is putting together. Three minutes of reading aloud followed by Simon-esque critiques from a panel of experienced/in-the-buisness judges. Grand prize gets a special look at their work by Donald Maass. Not a publishing guarantee, and even a publishing contract would have to be at least a $15,000 advance (possible, if it comes in the form of a 3-book contract at the rate of $5,000 per book--a plausible scenario for a first time author with a series to pitch) in order to give us the dream. But the only risk to me is the $15 entry fee and a possibly bruised ego depending on what the judges say. These are not new risks, and it's not like I'm going to have to spend gobs of time writing something or preparing something. Just got to polish a scene from SoD, practice reading it aloud, and steel myself for an unknown reaction.

Mark had been planning to start looking into the actual gambling websites now that he's done very well and learned a ton with the free poker sites and the local gambling town. He's very savvy with money and knows exactly what he can afford to risk without affecting Drew's savings, the rent, and the bills. And if not having movie money for a month means that Mark can win a big pot and let me stay at home and raise our son, I say bring on the evenings at home!

Of course, if there's a benefactor out there looking to off-load a big chunk of change, we certainly wouldn't be adverse to that either. Just be sure to put "Drew's Parenting Fund" in the subject of the email so I don't delete you as a spammer. Or perhaps "Drew's Daddy Warbucks" would be a more appropriate subject? I'll be checking my email every hour for those generous donations, oh wealthy philanthropist. :)

My Son the Altimeter

Andrew knows his elevations. When we went up to Blackhawk (Elevation 8056 ft) a couple of weeks ago, Drew slowed his kicks and punches to the 10 movements in 2-4 hours the pregnancy books tell you is normal. A few days after we returned, he resumed his usual 10 movements in 5 minutes that is his normal.

So I guess I should've expected that going to Chicago this weekend (Elevation 500 ft) would slow Drew down too. This time, his normal activity came back within hours after we landed in Denver (Elevation Mile High, give or take). Unfortunately, his decrease in movement meant that my mother wasn't able to feel a whole lot of kickin'. She'll just have to settle for seeing Drew kick those legs when he's finally free of my holding pen.

On a related note, I've discovered the joys of swollen ankles. They looked particularly disgusting this weekend as too much activity and a lower elevation through my body out of whack. Now is the time of evenings spent with my feet propped up. I'm very happy I have a laptop.

Happy Independence Day!

I'm heading out for a big family reunion in Chicago. It'll be hot, humid, and I'll be six and a half months pregnant. And there was much rejoicing.

Seriously, we're gathering to celebrate my grandparents' 50th Anniversary. I'm carrying their first great-grandchild and my aunt is carrying their eleventh grandchild. There will lots of belly-patting. This will also be the first time I've seen my brother since he came back from Iraq in April. All in all, it's shaping up to be an awesome weekend.

So be safe whether you're traveling or partying at home. Let's remember the positives of the holiday and see if that can get us to learn a few things about how to make our country's present and future better.

Writing Again

I think I managed to write a grand total of 1000 words during the months of February, March, April, and May. That is, 1000 new words in an actual draft of a novel or story. I did do a decent amount of pre-writing/worldbuilding for the on-line writing course I'm doing at Forward Motion. And we started writing the draft this month, so now I'm writing on a regular basis again. Unfortunately, right now I only have the time and energy to focus on Strings of Discord (note the new title, with a still unfortunate abbreviation of SoD), so I've had to put The Masque on hold for a bit. If I do work on another project while writing SoD, it will be Princess Incubus if only to finish a short story and see about entering it into a couple of contests.

SoD is going pretty darn well. The course has really allowed me to find a way to do a decent amount of plotting and such before I start writing without suffocating the organic writer in me. Before this book, I would sketch out some vague ideas of plot, characters, and world, and then I would just start writing and see where everything went, trusting that all the information I thought of for the book would be in my head whenever I needed it during the draft creation. A very difficult way to write, not efficient, and showed me some very, very nasty first drafts. Now I've found a way to document my ideas better, get Muse cranking out a few more details to keep me from wandering around for 20,000 words before I know where it is the book needs to go, and just in general keep me coherent and focused on the story at hand. But I still don't know too much about the story to make it boring to write. In short, I've found a way to be an organic writer with enough of the trappings of pre-planning and such to make me more efficient and (hopefully) more effective. Very exciting.

Plus, SoD has just been fun to work with. After three years of waiting for this story idea to shake loose from the death grip Muse had on it, I've got lots of information on this universe and series. Feels very good. Starting the book has been a bit rough, mainly because this is the first book in a seven-book series (I think), and I'm trying to lay a LOT of foundation without being overwhelming. But it's amazing to have such a clear sense of direction.

As for The Masque, part of the reason I decided to put it on hold for a bit is so I can go back and work with this project using what I learned from the writing course I'm taking. It's just a matter of difficult timing that I'll have to keep it on the backburner for a while. Once I get SoD really moving, I'll probably start finding ways to work in some worldbuilding and such for The Masque. It would be nice to get right back into writing that book as soon as I have a draft of SoD completed (the course is designed to give us about a year of draft creation).

And as for Human Dignity, I have finally decided to shelve it and let it revert to a fond place in my memory as a great first book that I learned a lot from. I know I could make it a saleable novel, but it would take a decent amount of energy and time that I certainly don't have now, and would rather put toward my current projects anyway. Maybe I'll revisit it a few years from now. But it needs to retire to a place of honor for the moment.

So that's the latest on my writing. I'll update the SoD wordcount every week, and I hope to get between 2000 to 3000 words a week, if not better for a while. My writing time will most likely take a marked hit come mid-September, and I want to have some nice padding built up so that I won't be struggling to make up missed words once things settle from uber insane to very insane after Andrew arrives.

Fodder for the Page

There are times when I wish I had a flashing neon sign or sign crawl over my head that went something like, " WARNING: I am a writer. Anything you do and say can and will be used in works of fiction." This should be played as part of my phone message, too. If nothing else, the number of stupid things I have to witness might diminish. Slightly.

For several weeks, every Wednesday evening, our phone would ring, I would answer (I generally answer the phone, Mark being more toward the shy side of these sorts of things), and the caller would immediately hang up. It was a strange pattern, one that really piqued my curiosity. So I had Mark answer the phone a couple Wednesdays ago instead. Sure enough, a woman asked for the man who had our number previously (two YEARS previously, mind you), Mark did the basic "wrong number" thing, and we have not had the mysterious hang-up caller since. I'm thinking old flame, ex-lover looking to reunite, something. The writer mind is furiously coming up with ideas for this repeat caller's actions. Of course, it could all be coincidence, but you just don't DO things like that around a writer. We go nuts with this stuff.

Similarly, I was at the OB's office again for yet another ugent, unplanned appointment (dizziness and really, really bad faint spells that seem to be the worst first thing in the morning at work--nothing wrong with me according to bloodwork, urinalysis, blood pressure, etc, just likely pregnancy's fun increase of fluid in the body is exacerbating my previously annoying dizziness issues), and the OB (not my new one, but a different one) kept checking herself out in the mirror on the back of the exam room's door while chatting with me. Of course, this gets me looking at this chick's appearance, thinking about her morning pampering routine, if she's always catching glimpses in mirrors, what others around her have noticed. In short, I'm trying to piece together a psychological profile.

You gotta be careful what you do and say around writers. We're always considering new material, and it could be you. :)

Comments Changed

I was getting some feedback that my Haloscan commenting service wasn't playing nice with all of my many commenters. So I switched to Blogger's commenting feature. This means all the witty things ya'll said in that past have gone down the cybernetic drain. Sorry, but enjoy the new feature.

A Note on Rhetoric

Here's a good rule of thumb: In today's society, using inflammatory rhetoric--such as comparing Gitmo to a gulag or a concentration camp--will get you a soundbite, but it will also detract from your point. It's unfortunate because everyone's discussing the way you said something, not what you said. Instead of debating what's happening at Gitmo and whether or not it's appropriate for any prisoner detention area, let alone one run by a democracy, we're flinging more blame and insults and indignation back and forth about bringing up the Nazis. There's a reason Godwin's Law came about. It's because you end up debating how the comparison is or is not apt, instead of the substance of the debate. What a waste of time, and what a disservice to the real issue at hand.

By the way, stories like Durbin's speech and the way they're reported do more to confirm my opinion that the media is neither liberal nor conservative but sensationalist. Before long, all the newspapers will be tabloids.

Who Says SF is Dying?

The Onion shows us a glimpse of the future.

More Pregnancy Fun

I learned over the weekend that a buffet is a beautiful thing to a pregnant woman. We went to our local gambling town, Blackhawk, this weekend to see what we could make of the last of our tax refund money (broke even). And I discovered the joys of the buffet. Andrew rather enjoyed himself as well. Never have I experienced so many "me wantee" reactions in one small area. The best part, of course, was that I could fulfill the "me wantee" to my heart's and stomach's content. And I did. Mark took a quick break from his poker table to share some of the meal with me. Then he left and I went back for fifths, sixths, sevenths, etc. :) At first it was all the meat that amazed me. By the time I had eaten prime rib, salmon, pork tenderloin, ribs, and crab legs, I realized that I should probably fit some veggies in somewhere. So I loaded up a plate with a salad and some sauteed green beans. Delish. I finally slowed down just in time for dessert, sadly. So I only had half a slice of a Death-by-Chocolate sort of concoction. And then two hours later I wolfed down a serving of chili cheese fries.

Andrew was one happy fetus Saturday evening. No wonder he's been pissy today--all he got was some piddly sandwich for lunch.

Pregnancy Irony

I should've thought about this earlier in the pregnancy. I mean, it really is par for the course. For the first time in my life, I have a decent amount of, shall we say, "substance" to my upper torso region. Unfortunately, I also have quite a bit of substance in my lower torso region at the same time. So my newfound assests are quite effectively even more dwarfed than they had been previously. From what I hear, these assets will, um, "hang around" a bit after delivery, thus hopefully giving me a chance to make the most of the temporary enhancement. Nothing too crazy--just certain tops and dresses look ridiculous at my normal size and don't with my natural improvements.

Hey, sometimes it's the small--or rather not as small as before--things that get you through a boring day at the DDJ.

Happy Birthday to ME!! :)

Yay, I'm 27 today. Sounds older than I feel, especially because for the most part during the pregnancy, I've felt so young, like I can't possibly be ready for a kid. Baby the Second should be around before I hit 30 or shortly thereafter, which is exactly the time frame I always wanted for having kids. But man, it still seems way too young mentally. Physically it actually seems a little old. This is confusing!

My birthday gift? The DDJ is struggling. I may be looking at another layoff. And I do consider this a gift--as long as they wait until at least Sept 15th before they give me the axe. Then I'll have five to six months of unemployment benefits with which to not only find a better job but to spend as much time with Andrew as possible! And the money might not be as tight as you would think because as long as the unemployment lasts is as long as we don't have to mess with daycare costs. But we're a few months from knowing if things are as dire as layoffs. Really feels weird to be rooting for unemployment again. Knowing my luck, though, they'll keep me and fire everyone else so my workload goes from the two jobs it is now to four. *sigh*

Scraped the Surface, the Movies Did

(I guess I better warn Jaquandor that he might want to skip this post as I give a mixed review of a Star Wars movie. So Jaquandor, you've been warned. :) Also, there's some spoilers, but seeing as how we're weeks away from the premiere, I don't know why I mention it.)

I saw Revenge of the Sith a week and a half ago, and I think finally the impressions and thoughts and such have simmered enough to let me post coherently and completely on the experience of the prequel trilogy, or whatever the hell it should be called. First of all, I do want to congratulate Lucas for answering the big questions: How did Anakin get to be Vader? How did the Emperor gain his power? How did the Jedi fall to the state we saw them in the original trilogy? Those are good questions and we got capable answers. Sadly, though, I realized as I watched Sith end that we only got answers that scraped the surface. We could've had more. We could've had another trilogy that does more than just entertain and look pretty. There was a promise of that in Phantom, and tantalizing glimpses in Sith, but Lucas dropped the ball where he so gloriously ran with it in the original trilogy. They're fun, beautiful movies that set out to tell us something and told us that something, and I'll buy the boxed set when it comes out. But I'll never be able to treasure these movies as I did the original trilogy, though I see many ways in which it would've been possible for the prequels to have been the treasures that the original trilogy is.

What do I mean by that? Well, I do want to make it clear that my opinion of the movies stems mainly from my writer's mind, and how I look at the construction of stories and characters. I don't know if that's a "fair" thing to do to any movie, but it's my frame of reference all the same. I had similar issues with The Chronicles of Riddick regarding how we were deprived of some fascinating worldbuilding and characterization in favor of stunning action sequences. Worldbuilding has never been and never will be difficult for any Lucas film. He always does an amazing job of showing us diverse worlds and creatures and making everything fit into the worlds he creates. He balances the showing and the telling so we believe that these worlds exist somewhere and life happens in the complex ways it happens for us. But characterization has been a huge issue throughout the prequels, and it is what's kept me from embracing these movies as I did the original trilogy.

Take Anakin. He's the focus of the prequels, and we've got to believe that he can go from a good kid in good hands to an evil man in evil hands. We've got to see that journey. And we've got to be cheering for him to stay good and wanting him to not become evil, even though we know he has to. Phantom did an excellent job of starting us on Anakin's journey. Attack then proceeded to do nothing to enhance or even advance his journey, unless somehow showing a whining brat of a teenager not getting his way and snapping when his mother dies qualifies. I didn't believe a thing about Anakin in Attack. He had no depth. He was a stereotypical brat. His destruction of the sand people seemed more like an escalated temper tantrum that happened to be convenient than vengeance for the death of his mother. And Padme wasn't someone he loved so much as an object he wanted to possess, most likely because someone had told him he couldn't have her. It was like he was already Darth Vader and the good Anakin had vanished in puberty.

And then we have his arc in Sith, which starts out OK. He's obviously conflicted with very good reason. He's got people he respects telling him different things and expecting everything and nothing from him at once. He's afraid for the safety of his pregnant wife and wants to do anything to protect her because he failed his mother after he had similar fears. I'm with him in this movie, believing that struggle, and thankfully forgetting about the shallowness of Attack. Everything's going along fairly well until Mace Windu goes to arrest the Emperor. Anakin, in a rough spot, tries to stop the battle between the Jedi and the Sith Lord so the Emperor can be arrested and the Jedi don't have treasonous taint on their hands, and ends up helping Mace to his death. Anakin staggers, says, "What have I done?" and I'm prepared for a battle of wits and perhaps light sabers as Anakin attempts to haul Palpatine to prison. Instead, ten seconds later, Anakin is on his knees, pledging his allegiance to the Sith.

WHAT?!?!?!?!?

But then he has to go kill him some Jedi, per Palpatine's orders. OK, I'm ready to forgive this brief (but humongous) dodging of character conflict and tension and watch it build again as he storms off to the temple. When he goes into the room with the younglings, I'm bracing for something truly amazing--yet tastefully done--to show Anakin's struggle. But all we get is two seconds of his face and two more of his light saber going on and then we're done. I understand not wanting to show the slaughter of children, but I don't understand the further dodging of revealing just how tortured Anakin is at that moment. Unless he's not supposed to be tortured anymore, that the weight of his good side was gone as soon as he pledged his allegiance. And I can't buy that. In a series of three movies that, as I understood it, were primarily supposed to show us how someone like Anakin could become someone like Darth Vader, dodging Anakin's character conflict seems a huge flaw. But I could've had improper expectations for the prequels. Perhaps they were just supposed to show us the mechanics of getting from point A to point B without really delving into the characters all that much.

Brief side note: When the hell did Padme go from butt-kicking Queen to whimpy, whiny, I-can't-do-anything-without-Anakin Senator? Because even though she had the poor sense to fall in love with an angsty, brat of a boy in Attack, she still ran off--of her own choice--to kick some serious ass at the end of the movie. Then all of a sudden she's pregnant and needs a man to so much as blink in Sith. WTF? We have a nice moment where she's in the Senate and we get to see some of her strength and wit with her line "So this is how liberty dies, to thunderous applause." Then she's right back to barefoot and pregnant and bed-ridden, apparantly, pining for Anakin. She shows no frustration or anger toward Anakin, which is what I would've expected, given her previous performances. She exhibits some backbone as she goes chasing after Anakin at the end of the movie, but then gives some mewling speech until Anakin quite understandably tries to shut up her whining by doing the Vader choke thing. I was actually cheering for him at that point, even if it meant killing Luke and Leia along with her.

I also had problems with the stakes of Sith, especially the final two battles. They're set up in a "who's going to survive" fashion when we bloody well know who's going to survive from the beginning. This might be where a movie just can't do what a book does. I dunno. All I do know is that I found the battles extremely anti-climactic because nothing was at stake. Absolutely nothing. That's the challenge with any prequel: surprising the reader/viewer by revealing that something they assumed from the previous material was actually wrong. MacDonald and Doyle do an excellent job of this in The Gathering Flame of their Mageworlds series. We know what has to happen by the end of the book, and we think we know how they get to that point, but boy-oh-boy are we wrong. All because we were allowed to assume something in the preceding three books that we learned was wrong. We had a hint of that with the midichlorions creating Anakin, and then learning that the Sith had the power to do such a thing in this last movie. Man, did I want to spend some more time with that little plot thread. Talk about playing with some stakes and characters and conflict. To think that Palpatine may have actually created Anakin? Whoa, that's something we weren't expecting. But it gets toyed with and abandoned, though not as quickly as the "crap, we have to mention how we can do that glowy after-we're-dead communicaton before the movie ends" line that Yoda says. That would've been another interesting thing to delve into and shake up what we thought we knew from the original trilogy.

The prequels are fun to watch and definitely beautiful, but they don't have that same transcendant quality that the original trilogy has. Which is really too bad--and kind of annoying. Especially because now I'll have to write what I think should've been seen in those movies in some fashion in a book of my own. Damn you, Lucas! I already have too many book ideas cluttering up my noggin! The one thing Lucas did absolutely right was the ending sequence beginning with Vader's first breath (though I would quibble with how he goes with the easier "your anger killed her, Vader" instead of the much more staggering "her death was caused by you trying to stop her death"). As we heard the music and saw the double-sunset on Tatooine, I was tearing up and praying that Lucas was smart enough to realize that the movie had to end right then. Thankfully he was, otherwise I would've had to have made a quick trip to California to beat him over the head with my boxed set of the original trilogy.

Writers & Ideas

Neil Gaiman recently posted an essay about the dreaded question writers get asked frequently: Where do you get your ideas? I don't find this question all that annoying--or at least not yet. Mainly because each one of my ideas has a bit of a fun story behind how it came to be something I wanted to write.

Human Dignity: Ethics class run amok, and I mean amok.

The Masque: Writing exercise supposed to get you thinking about the masks your character wears and what your character might do with a mask's annonymity; I chose to write about what a Masque Ball might look like in the future, and on Mars. Then other story ideas generated by a line of dialog and watching SG-1 sparked the rest of the Masque Universe.

Princess Incubus: Someone at a con read a story from the POV of a succubus's victim. I spent the entire time wondering what the story would sound like from the succubus's POV. Decided to write it.

Strings of Betrayal: While driving between Grand Teton and Yellowstone, I happened to look into a glade that was bordered by aspen and pine trees. I saw a vision of a ephemeral creature stand in front of the aspens and vanish into the darkness of the pines. I knew there was a story there, and I've spent the past three years hunting it down.

I love sharing these stories of how my ideas came to me. Mainly because then I get to relive those moments of discovery, those instances of "Wow, that's something I've GOT to write" or "There's something cool going on here, and I'm going to find out what". That first spark is amazing, and I don't think I'll ever reach the point where I won't be willing to share the story of how I got a particular idea. But if someone just wants a general idea of where all my ideas come from, I'd have to make some vague gesture to the world and my head. I don't get all my ideas from one central source, nor do they come at me in the same way. And I don't think I've ever expected I would for anything, not science, not singing, not writing, you name it. If I ever had to rely on one source for inspiration and motivation, yick. So I guess my advice to writers when faced with this question is to first ask, "Do you mean in general or for one story in particular?" Get the person asking to think about it a bit.

Carefully Energized

For the past month, I've been sleeping better and eating better in the mornings. I've had energy to spend toward other ends beyond just getting through 40 hours of work every week. I've been using most of this energy to get Strings of Betrayal (really need to change that title) back up to speed with the on-line writing course. And get back in touch with family and friends that never heard from me while I spent a lot of time sleeping or hugging a bucket.

So I was a bit concerned when I started to have some mildly odd symptoms on Monday. Severe dizziness accompanied with mild headaches and nausea, a yellow haze to my vision, some minor swelling, and the realization that I have gained twenty pounds in ten weeks (versus the ten pounds that is recommended). I don't mind the extra weight. I expected to gain weight these nine months, and I expected my bod would gain whatever weight it needed for this little boy growing inside me. But the additive effect of these symptoms raised preeclampsia concerns. I don't have any of the more serious, red-flag-raising symptoms, and everything I'm dealing with (only occassionally, really; the new symptoms seem to be noticeable in the afternoon) is explainable as normal pregnancy stuff. But it is frustrating that just a month after getting some semblance of normal energy levels back that I have to start taking it easy again. My OB isn't too concerned at the moment, just wants me to watch the salty and sugary foods and rest a bit better in the evenings and keep drinking the 3L of water I've been chugging since Andrew first made his presence known. While bedrest has the appeal of ending my suffering at the DDJ earlier than Oct 3, it's not a situation to strive for.

Genre Issues

A while ago it got around the writing blogosphere that Tor is looking for erotica/romantica. For some reason this got me pondering whether or not The Masque and its universe would be considered in that category. It definitely has more sex and sexual themes than does your basic SF. But did that necessarily mean that it would fit more in the erotica genre than SF? I decided to pick up a couple of erotic novels by authors I respected from reading their blogs (Alison Kent being one, though I don't know if she writes romantica more than erotica, and I'm not sure where the boundaries of subgenres are within this genre or if there are any). Anyway, after reading these two books, I realized what I realized after reading a basic romance novel. I don't write either of those genres, nor do I really want to. Why? Formula.

Romance and mystery in particular are two genres that are slaves to a formula. It's the nature of the genres. In romance, the formula is as follows, and it is the primary focus of the novel. Step 1: Boy meets girl (or vice versa) and there is a Potent Attraction of some kind, which can manifest itself in everything from a look to a sexual encounter--the type of manifestation usually depends on the genre. Step 2: Something prevents boy and girl from being together. Step 3: Boy and girl overcome this obstacle. Step 4: Boy and girl finally get around to admitting to themselves and each other that they are in love. The only way you can play around with these steps is by changing subgenres within the genre. And then you encounter a much more specific formula. I'm shying away from romance novels right now because I'm sick of the formula.

It's the same with mysteries: mystery presents itself, clues are chased down in a particular fashion, mystery is solved. I stopped reading mysteries at some point in college because I kept seeing the formula instead of the story and was very, very annoyed. I've found that the way for me to enjoy mysteries despite the formula is to pick a series with some sort of intriguing element. For example, Nevada Barr writes mysteries set in National Parks. As I am a National Park junky, I love these books because I can get caught up in the setting whenever the formula starts to rear its head. Although this creates the Jessica Fletcher Syndrome. If you ever run into Jessica Fletcher anywhere in these United States, turn around and run because someone's gonna die. Similarly, if Anna Pigeon is a park ranger at the National Park you are visiting, make a hasty exit because a dead body ain't too far away. The only way to avoid this syndrome in mystery serials is to have your character be a cop or bounty hunter or in a setting where murders happen frequently. Smalltown Maine and National Parks aren't them.

Side note: I'm finding paranormal romance an excellent diversion from romance formulas. Cases in point: Lynn Viehl's If Angels Burn and Holly Lisle's Midnight Rain and Last Girl Dancing (reminder: check out the freebie chapters and pre-order; kickass paranormal/suspense premise).

Romance plays a heavy part in my novels, mystery less so. But I could never write in those genres because of the formula. I prefer SF and fantasy because there seems to be a distinct lack of formula in these genres, other than your basic storytelling plot arc: hero wants something, villain presents obstacles, hero overcomes obstacles and usually learns something in the process. All nice and vague--ample opportunity to play. I suppose that authors in romance and mystery must feel that same opportunity or somehow prefer the formula, otherwise they wouldn't be writing that genre.

All this is what made me realize that, while my books might stretch the boundaries of SF and fantasy because of their romantic elements, they are most definitely SF and fantasy. This might mean I'll run into the same issues that S.L. Viehl does with her StarDoc books, but oh well. They are the stories I want to tell. And that's what matters, not the genre label.

Visions of Being a Published Writer

I've been browsing through a few blogs, reading about marketing your books, writing newsletters to readers, blogging as a marketing tool, and other sorts of things. I read these things to get a feel for what may or may not be expected of me when my Big Publishing Day comes. Lots of good ideas out there, both of what you should and shouldn't do. Mainly I just read and get a sense of "I can do that" or "can't do that" or "don't want to do that".

When I think of me as a published writer, I think about doing stuff locally for signings and interviews, working with schools to get kids reading and interested in science. I think about using my blog and maybe a message board to promote my books, something user-friendly and regularly updated/used that's intended to be fun and a way to get the word about my fabulous writing. ;) I think of someone who attends one big con a year, a local one, and a writing conference at the most. I think about being on a couple panels, trying a reading here and there (I'm a very extroverted person, and I used to do the readings at Mass, but reading my own work out loud with inflection and character and stuff just makes me start blushing furiously), using whatever popularity I have to get more butts in the seats at the art auctions, chatting with other writers and fans. Nothing too crazy.

Then I read this: Neil Gaiman's tips for a signing. Wow. I'm not sure I ever want to be as popular as some of those tips would indicate he is. That kind of success would put a lot of pressure on me, just like making the New York Times Bestseller. I'm not sure I want all those expectations. I'd rather have a decent-sized reader/fan base to keep the publishing contracts coming at a modest enough size to give me the time to write my books and the money to help out the family as much as is needed. Anything more than that might start taking the fun out of it for me, unless I figure out how to live only for myself and not get caught up so much in what the world expects of me. I suppose that would be possible, now that I think about it more. Afterall, I did kiss off the idea of a career using my degrees because I want to write. And I did it all for myself. So maybe there is hope for me to be very successful as a writer and still be true to myself and my stories. But I think I'd rather hang out in the "mid-list" popularity for a bit to make sure.

Made a Cut

My essay, The Purple Heart, made it to the second round of Holly's Talyn ARC Contest. Read the other finalists here. Now it's time for Holly to really look at the entries and decide which two make the grade. You can help out by voting here (must sign up to be a member of Holly's blog--it's free and spam-free and easy and worth it to read advance snippets of her upcoming books and such). Notice I didn't say "vote for me". There are a lot of great essays in the contest, so vote for your fave. While I've never seen an ARC, let alone owned one, and would very much like to change that, I entered the contest more out of my own need to write at least something about my brother's story, and I'll be buying Talyn when it comes out anyway, if only for the kickass cover art alone. :) So go check it out and read up on Last Girl Dancing while you're at it.

Dental Hijinks

I tried for the second time to get that damn tooth of mine seated for a permanent crown. No dice. I got into that dentist's chair and immediately started sobbing. Couldn't stop. Dentist (who is also pregnant, about seven weeks behind me) didn't even get a chance to shoot me full of novacaine. I'm not sure I mentioned the first round of this experience. The actual root canal procedure itself was a breeze compared to drilling out the temporary crown and prepping my tooth for the permanent one.

The problem with the first time we tried this was that I had just been in the car accident not much more than a week before. Something about the drilling sound, vibrations, and pressure just absolutely freaked me out. We're talking hyperventilating through sobs freak out. We're talking nightmares for two days freak out. We're talking sudden flashbacks of the experience in the middle of meetings and commutes freak out. Yes, we're most likely talking post-traumatic stress disorder freak out.

I tried all weekend to settle myself and prepare for this morning's trip to the dentist. Frustrated Mark because he kept trying to get me to be rational about the whole thing and I just couldn't manage it. Pissed myself off because I had to reschedule the damn appointment AGAIN this morning when I couldn't settle down enough to even try the damn procedure. Also slightly miffed with Andrew because if he weren't tossed into the equation, they could pump me up with some laughing gas or happy pills to get me through this procedure.

By the way, what kind of sense does it make that the docs were willing to put me on anti-depressants for the rest of my pregnancy back when I had my work stress insanity in April but they're not willing to let me take one little anti-anxiety pill to get me through an hour or two of dental work? Are the drugs really THAT different? I was and still am much better equipped to deal with work stress and pregnancy symptoms than I am to get over irrational freak outs about a dental drill. Hell, I'm better equipped to deal with the stress and mild depression symptoms (which I'm still not convinced I really had, but apparently I worried a couple of docs who supposedly should know better) than I am to sit in a chair that months ago had a spider on it. And a very small spider at that.

Anyway, the third time has to be the charm for this permanent crown prep because the temporary crown cannot last for another rescheduling. Oh, and meanwhile, my dentist whom I love has decided to opt out of my insurance network as of this weekend. So the cost of the crown prep will likely be $100 more than it would have been today, had I managed to swallow my fear. Or I can always try to find a new dentist to try this procedure out with. Me no rikey my options. Stupid tooth.

Suddenly Pregnant, My Brother the Bugler & Other Stories

It's amazing how many people have commented on my Big Fat Belly this week now that I've started wearing maternity tops. I haven't suddenly gained a pregnant belly, but that's what everyone seems to think. It's probably just a matter of perspective. My belly has reached the right proportions that the eye can't just chalk it up to a little extra chunkiness, there has to be a kid growing in there. There are a few people I haven't managed to tell in the area, and I'm sadistically looking forward to seeing them at some point this summer now that I'm showing. I like the sort of life changes that you see before you hear about them, the positive ones, anyway.

In other pregnancy news, Andrew let me sleep through the night last night. Of course, it's because he wanted me to sleep for a good three more hours, but still. I fell asleep around midnight and woke up just before six with the usual "gotta pee, gotta eat" urge I usually wake up to a 3 AM or so. Too bad today was a work day, though, otherwise I would've fallen back into bed. Andrew's still miffed about me not getting more sleep as he's been kicking at me regularly this morning.

And with no seque, my mom told me about my brother's experience as part of a Marine color guard. Skipping past my confusion because I thought he had officially left the Corps and wasn't in the Reserves or anything that would require him to be in a color guard, I found out that my brother can bugle. Probably not as well as the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B, but that's not gonna stop me from calling Brad that when I talk to him next. Gotta hand it to those Marines: they don't miss a thing in training, especially when it comes to color guards.

Drew's Room

I could talk about how the workload at the DDJ managed to get a notch worse this week. Or I could talk about how Muse is damn near liquifying brain cells, trying to get me to write, or at the very least outline. But I decided it would be much more pleasant to talk about the decor in Drew's room. (I've always like Drew as a nickname for Andrew; now I love it. :))

Before we knew we were having a boy, Mark and I decided we wanted to go with gender neutral regardless of our child's gender. Blues, yellows, greens, stars, moons, teddy bears. We found this amazing nursery pattern at Babies R Us. Isn't it great? We're going to highlight the gorgeous sage green. Unfortunately for Andrew, the nursery will be coexisting as our study until Mark graduates and we're able to jet on out of here and (hopefully) into a house with at least three bedrooms. It'll make for an interesting look. The rocking chair that Mark brought with him from his family's home will be perfect for nursing Drew and soothing him on rough nights. And we're slowly but surely building our collection of fun baby books and such.

And that's about as far as we've gotten with the nursery. We probably won't get much farther, though, since we know it's likely that we'll be moving right about the time Drew's six months old. It's still a heck of a lot of fun to think about.

Allow Me to Introduce...

...my son, Andrew Thomas. Poor thing isn't even breathing air just yet, but he waves hello all the same--much to my bladder's annoyance. We had our spiffy ultrasound last week. Got to see Andrew's spine, heart, stomach, bladder, arms, legs, the lens of his eye. And, of course, we also got to see the organ that clearly defines Baby as Andrew. The technician gave us the usual disclaimer that only seeing the body part in question at birth would make everything 100% certain, but that third leg really couldn't have been anything else.

Mark and I had names picked out over a year ago when we decided to give this parenthood thing a whirl. And that's why Baby already has a name. So while I might occasionally reference this thing growing inside me as Baby and Junior, I'm going to be using his actual name more and more often. That way I also get used to the idea of having a boy, as intuition had me convinced Andrew was female. I promise that'll be the last time I inflict such horrible gender confusion on my son, though. But if Baby the Second is also a boy, then all bets are off. :)

Mmmmm....Steak....

Baby let me have steak this weekend!!!! A nice, medium-well, juicy piece of beef smothered with portabello mushrooms. I'm taking advantage of this sudden OK for beef by making a roast this weekend. Our menu can expand beyond chicken now. And there was much rejoicing.

"Mandatory Overtime"

Just as everyone was packing up on Friday afternoon, our Esteemed Manager (I'll call him EM from now on, and feel free to come up with other fun descriptors that begin with the letter E) decided that a particular project was falling behind and the team had to come in on the weekend to work on it. Technically, this isn't my project, and I'm only a "backup" member of the team. But I had to come in anyway. I had been planning on going in anyway as the project that is actually mine is also falling behind, and due slightly before this other one. The DDJ is still as awful as ever, but I'm not letting it bother me quite so much. Mainly because I came to a couple realizations: 1) I may have the skills and enough power to try to make things change around here, but if the Powers That Be refuse to listen to me, then it's SOL for them; and 2) I've got meeting minutes going back to November that clearly lay out how I had said we should handle a particular issue and more minutes that clearly indicate that no one was doing anything about my suggestions, so it won't be MY ass on the line if things get SNAFUed in a hurry. Plus I think my job's protected due to being pregnant at least until three months after birth. Then they can fire my ass.

Ah, the DDJ. I've got my application into my dream job, so keep your fingers crossed, that 1) they'll interview me and 2) they won't mind hiring a woman who is quite obviously pregnant and will be needing maternity leave just about the time she'll be fully trained at her job. :)

Scorcher

Today got into the 90s. And we're still in spring. Ick. I'm going to be very pregnant during July and August, and they're shaping up to be very hot months. I went on a maternity clothes run tonight, hoping to find some of those nice, loose, flowy skirts that never get wrinkled (or are just crinkly enough on their own that you can't tell). Found some light maternity t-shirts that will help, but no skirts. I think I'm going to check out Babies R Us this weekend and see what they have. My mom's friend's daughter recently had a baby, and she sent me all her maternity clothes. Unfortunately, she didn't have to work during her pregnancy, so I'm lacking in the nice pants/capris/skirts department. Plenty of good shirts, though. Oh, and I better pick up some maternity undies this weekend too. Junior likes to sit very low in my belly, right about where all the underwear elastic is hitting. Baby may not mind, but my bladder is beginning to feel like it's in a pincer attack with the elastic and Junior's enthusiastic punches and kicks.

And if anyone has invented one of those personal climate control suits, send one my way please. I have a feeling I'm going to be wishing I could walk around in a 68degree bubble for the next couple months.

Writing Status

Writing. Writing writing writing writing. Even my revised goal of finishing a draft of The Masque before Baby's Big Day seems less and less likely. I'll be very happy if I can finish my "Princess Incubus" short and submit it to a writing contest before Baby's Big Day. As for the on-line writing course for Strings of Betrayal, I'm slowly but surely getting caught up after lagging two months behind. And I still can't make up my mind about the fate of Human Dignity.

The good news? I go to my crit group nearly every Tuesday (there are some Tuesdays where I need sleep more than I need writing comraderie). I am being mentored by a published author on a monthly basis, maybe twice a month after the insanity that is May passes the both of us by. And as soon as I get the OK about using the author's name, I'll share it and my experiences with our mentoring here. I participate in the Forward Motion Think Tanks fairly often. I blog as often as I am able--which, you'll note, seems to be more often. And, of course, rarely does a day pass that I don't think about my various projects and manage to jot a note here and there.

So writing is still a part of my life despite the vagaries of my job and my pregnancy. It's not occupying the part I'd like it to play, of course. But I'm dealing with that necessity a bit better each day. It's still going to frustrate me. And maybe I'll figure out a way not to let it bother me quite so much by the time Baby and Baby the Second are out of the house. By then I'm sure I'll have a host of new Issues to work on. :)

As I go through these thoughts on my writing and it's place in my life in the past, present, and future, I'm reading with interest Holly Lisle's struggle with her own writing future. She seems to have reached a point where she doesn't want to propose (sell) a book and then write it. She'd rather do what us amateurs have no choice but to do: write the book THEN sell it. I confess that I'd rather do things that way for the rest of my writing career, but that's mostly because I'm an organic writer and I discover the books as I write them. Makes it hard to sell a book before it's written. As I will be providing only supplemental income with my writing when I no longer have to deal with the Dreaded Day Job, I may be able to get away with writing books then selling them. We'll see.

And that's the writing status as of today. Primary goal is to finish and submit "Princess Incubus". Secondary goal is to finish a draft of The Masque. Of immediate concern is finishing up my last couple weeks of missed assignments for the on-line course.

Rough Essay

Holly's doing a little contest to give away her ARCs of Talyn. I remember reading the first chapter or so of this when she posted them special at Forward Motion sometime last year or perhaps even the year before (isn't the cover art beautiful?). I pre-ordered my copy of this book last night, alongwith Holly's Last Girl Dancing and the new Harry Potter. (I also ordered the last Tori Amos album I need to complete my collection; no one keeps Strange Little Girls in stock.)

Anyway, when Holly posted the contest, I knew I had to enter. Not because I had to have the ARCs, which would be cool, but because of the topic of the essay contest: rediscovering honor. I've known since Thanksgiving that I have to write at least a short story about my brother's experiences in Iraq. I've also known since then that I'm nowhere near the kind of writer I need to be to do that story justice. But I've also known that I can't just leave the story unwritten. So here's the essay I entered into the contest.

----

I haven't seen my brother since he came back from Iraq the second time. I'll have a chance to give him the fierce hug that's been building at our family reunion in July, but until then all I have is a picture of him receiving his Purple Heart.

He's one of only a few Marines in uniform. The rest are standing in formation, at attention in the grass behind him. There's an SUV, a couple of civilians, and a trashcan cluttering up the background. My brother has the medal pinned to his chest, and he's shaking someone's hand.

But it's his eyes that I see right away whenever I look at this picture. I see him watching an improvised explosive device fling two of his men from the truck and send shrapnel into the driver. I see him fighting to save the life of the young man who didn't make it. I see him hearing the news that the two other men in the truck were honorably discharged, one without a foot, one with severe damage to his arms. I see him waking up suddenly under the bridge his company protected, thinking it was a bad dream but the bandage on his own arm telling him differently.

I see honor. I see its price. And I know I will never look at a Purple Heart without the same mix of pride, despair, anger, and relief that I feel right now.

----

There are a couple of details I wasn't able to put in the essay due to the 250-word limit. But that's only part of the reason why this little essay is just a glimmer of a beginning for the story I want to write about my brother. Love ya, Baby Bro.

Alive & Kicking

A few weeks ago, I felt the first flutterings in the general area of my womb that could've been attributed to Junior's active limbs. I've been paying attention for more certain signs of movement, but I didn't get a clear "Yes, this is definitely Baby kicking" until last week. I had just indulged in a plate of nuggets and fries, my usual late-night snack. I was laying in bed, watching a taped episode of The Simpsons. I decided to press in slightly to see if I could get a definite response from this thing growing inside me. Sure enough, I got a mild little thunk back that couldn't be anything other than Junior. So I had Mark repeat the process. Evidently we had annoyed or excited the kid, because Baby responded to Mark's mild pressure with a vehement soccer kick that most likely could've been seen had Mark's hand not been on my Big Fat Belly.

The best part about feeling Baby move is the reassurance and realization it brings. This child is no longer just something that makes me exhausted and sick. I have regular tangible evidence that this is a person, living and growing and learning and preparing itself for Real Life. It's amazing what these kicks have done for me. I've slept so much better. And the mornings have been so smooth, almost even normal. I'm still a little tired during the day, but it's not the bone weary exhaustion it's been. I feel more energized. Of course, this could just be a couple of good days and the swing back is somewhere on the horizon. But I feel pretty damn good right now, and that's what counts.

I do find it really strange that when I was just "sick" with no real tangible evidence of pregnancy (beyond that which could be obtained at a doctor's office) I couldn't feel normal. But now that I've got a creature kicking me from the inside, I'm back to my usual self. Pregnancy sometimes seems so bizarre as to be an abberation, not a normal part of life.

The Mystery of Three

My mother is the oldest of eight children. The youngest, my aunt DeeDee, is only three years older than I am. She got married three weeks before I did--I was a bridesmaid in her wedding and she was my matron of honor. I found out earlier this week that she is expecting her first child three months after my own first enters the world. I told her that if our second children our separated by some increment of three, I will start an investigation. :)

She's just starting out on this crazy thing called pregnancy. It seems so long ago that I too was fretting about how long I had to wait for my first OB appointment, or first discovering the joys of a constantly full bladder, or first realizing that sleep would be an elusive yet often demanded thing for the next year or so, or wondering if it would be possible to mainline antacid as a means to ease heartburn. She hasn't experienced any morning sickness as yet, and I'll keep my fingers crossed that she doesn't.

It's nice to have someone I know very well going through this with me. DeeDee's not close by, but she's close at heart and that makes me feel a whole lot less alone in this process. Maybe alone is not the right word. But I didn't have anyone I knew to share this with who's going through it too. It's nice to have that now. Plus I get to share the little nuggets of womanly and motherly wisdom that I've been learning along the way instead of just taking all that wisdom from others. Makes me feel useful, even when I can't be bothered to drag myself off the couch or out of bed on the weekends.

So congrats to DeeDee and her husband Mike. Now when we all get together for my grandparents' 50th anniversary in July, I won't be the only one waddling or stretching out clothing. I'll have to make shirts: DeeDee's will say "Grandchild on Board" and mine will say "Great-grandchild on Board".

Fun Quiz

Via Kat, a nice time-waster. I found the results pretty well in-line with how I think of myself: overall, balanced. :)

Your brain: 80% interpersonal, 100% visual, 100% verbal, and 120% mathematical!

Congratulations on being 400% smart! Actually, on my test, everyone is. The above score breaks down what kind of thinking you most enjoy doing. A score above 100% means you use that kind of thinking more than average, and a score below 100% means you use it less. It says nothing about how good you are at any one, just how interested you are in each, relatively. A substantial difference in scores between two people means, conclusively, that they are different kinds of thinkers.

Link: The 4-Variable IQ Test written by chriscoyne on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Two Heads Not Better Than One

I am two people right now. No, not in the "quick get the crazy pills" sense, but in the "philosophers might have some fun with this" sense. This miracle of life can get pretty mind-boggling at times. To think that this child can't survive without me is pretty daunting. My body is sustaining myself and Junior. And meanwhile, Daddy is only having to deal with some second-hand impacts. Lucky duck. He contributed some nucleic acids, maybe some vital proteins, and that's it. Everything else has been all Baby and me. That leaves me wondering exactly how men came to be and still are the "dominant" sex. I don't mean to sound bitter or sexist. It's just one of those things you think about during a bad bout of morning sickness. Right along with the thoughts of "we've been doing this for HOW many thousands of years and evolution hasn't found a better way to create new life" and "can't we just lay eggs like lizards".

But back to the two people, one body thing. I can definitely say that two heads are most certainly not better than one. Simple case in point: food. I miss steak. Juicy, spicy, covered in A-1 steak. Baby clearly is not interested in this delicacy. I'll think about the taste of steak and start to salivate. Then I think about swallowing a bite of steak, and my stomach gives the negative anticipatory rumble. This dichotomy has me bothered enough that I haven't even tried to repeat this thought exercise with something like salmon. I should really start building menus that I can stash somewhere and just start having all of these Lost Meals as soon as Junior's out and about. That's assuming that the little runt won't decide to take issue with any of the Lost Meal byproducts showing up in breast milk. At least then I'll be able to pass the kid over to Mark for him to deal with whatever unfortunate results occur.

Similarly, having Baby's input on my life right now makes getting work done interesting. I'll be all excited about getting some writing done, and Baby will promptly decide it's Nap Time. It's to the point where a successful weekend is one in which I've conned this child into letting me clean the bathrooms or balance my checkbook. At least I can get a lot of reading and TV-watching and music-listening done. Baby seems to enjoy the Simpsons and Whose Line and CSI, but can't be bothered to let me stay awake through the Star Wars trilogy and finds Law&Order unimpressive. Baby loves Carol Berg's fantasies and Nevada Barr's mysteries, but isn't very interested in Lemony Snicket or the morning paper. Tori Amos is a fave, especially the really melodic piano bits, and the string-quartet awesomeness of Bond is appealing, but nearly all radio stations are a no-go--at least while I'm driving. In short, it seems Baby really likes me to laugh and think and dream. While I certainly loved these activities before, I get extra joy and reward from them now. It's interesting.

OK, so I guess two heads can be better than one. Rather, this second person growing inside me is finding some ways to give back as it takes sustenance from me. Maybe Baby will feel so generous as to let me enjoy a big steak this summer.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

I finally snapped last week. All because of warm milk and turkey sandwiches, or rather the suggestion of them.

Week 15 of my pregnancy had been fantastic, notwithstanding all the damn car minutiae we were going through. Week 16 brought back the joys of bad sleep and morning conversations with Earl Chunks, my trusty green bucket. By the time I got to Week 17, I was starting to fall asleep in meetings at work and losing concentration during simple tasks. I called my OB to try to convince him that the normally trivial pregnancy symptoms of exhaustion and morning sickness were having a profound impact on my life and health. I thought for sure that mentioning that I had run a red light and caused a car accident most likely due to exhaustion would finally get this guy's attention. But no. He comes back with warm milk and turkey sandwiches as the next fix to try. This came the day after I was seconds away from quitting my job because I had just gotten a new pile of work and no help to get through it. I lost it.

Week 18, this week, of my pregnancy saw me at home, taking a week off from work (without pay because my three remaining vacation days are spoken for with family trips) so I could try to get some sleep and get on top of all this stress. And, of course, find a new OB. I did get a lot of sleep, and most of my mornings were fine, although Baby can't seem to let me go longer than ten days without finding fault with something I ate for breakfast. But trying to get on top of the stress has been rough. I had some heart to hearts with Mark to find the best ways for the two of us to deal with my stress and his stress without creating more stress. I progressed further in my quest to accept the reality of my current situation: energy levels that I can't depend on, rough mornings, lots of naps, strange reactions to even the mention of some foods, etc. But when it came to figuring out how I might handle returning to work, I kept coming up empty.

Then I realized a couple of things. One, that I've dealt with exceedingly stressful situations before in my life and emerged just fine, and even weathered the storms with a helluva lot more grace. Two, that in those previous situations I had the comfort of knowing exactly where I was going in life (career in research) and of good, unwavering health. Three, that while I now have life goals and direction again, I am unable to proceed toward them with the gusto I would like due to Mark's needing to finish up his degree and my needing to bring home the bacon until he's got the letters after his name to do so. Four, that I can't rely on my body at all to be healthy at any given time. In short, nearly all of my strength is tapped in just getting through the unique stress and health issues of each day, sometimes each hour. So it's no wonder that a downward spiral in my work situation combined with the extracurricular joys of a car accident and root canal are all converging to make me a basket case on a regular basis. I've got to learn new coping strategies because the fallbacks of life direction and health are no longer givens that I don't have to worry about.

So while I don't necessarily have any answers to make the months leading up to October 3 any easier, I at least have a better understanding of where I am and why things get to feel so overwhelming. And knowing those things will hopefully help me see warning signs well in advance of the snapping point I hit last week.

One Day I'll Learn

I've been grousing a lot about how icky I feel. And I got to thinking about how that might be misrepresenting both me and pregnancy. Let me make this clear: I am not a wimp or a whiner, and pregnancy isn't this awful condition to be feared or avoided lest you feel as miserable as I've been describing or worse. It's just that, with Mark being "stuck" in grad school for another year or so (pray for cooperative fruit flies so we can lower that number), I'm the major breadwinner for the family. I feel this responsibility acutely. And it's driving me crazy that the one time I absolutely need my body to be 100% so I can provide for this child in the future is the same time that I have to make every concession my body asks of me in order to provide for this child right now.

So I'm getting a tad irked with my pregnant body for not letting me work the 40hours or more without collapsing from exhaustion every night and weekend. I'm rather pissed at this mortal casing for not letting me finish a book that I could try to get published in time for Junior's arrival or shortly thereafter (yes, I know that's not all that realistic anyway, but this "gotta provide" thing is freakish in its primal, instinctive nature). And I'm really annoyed that I have to kowtow to my stomach before I can make weekend plans to work with some writing friends on putting together a consulting business. Does it matter that it would be unreasonable to consider 100% non-stop effectiveness while trying to work three jobs (the nine-to-fiver, writing, and consulting) even without the added "job" of pregnancy? Apparently it didn't to me.

I know--in the logic sense--that our financial situation is fine. Sure, it's not ideal, but it's very capable of keeping Mark, Baby, and myself fed and well cared for. Even with the unexpected car loan foisted on us last week. I know that we'll find a way to keep day care costs and frequency of use to a minimum. Mark is a genius when it comes to finding ways to make the best of tight money and time situations. But there's that illogical, emotion-ridden part of me that feels the weight of this child growing in me and knows that I want more than "we'll find a way" for this new life. I have a feeling I'll be fighting this part of me for the rest of my life, and that I'm in no way unique as a parent to feel this. I'll always try to find even more resources to give this baby. Always be willing to run myself into the ground to get those resources. Because, after all, my life isn't nearly as important as this child's. So sayeth the illogical, emotion-ridden, Mother Bear, instinctive part of me.

And so I grouse about the exhaustion and the morning sickness. I get frustrated every time I have to set aside weekend plans. I feel the stress levels rise every time I think of the long list of items I haven't been able to get to since February. I take on more and more at work, hoping to compensate for all the sick days I've taken and all the times I have to leave early or arrive late and make up the time at home or on the weekend. Every "relapse" into exhaustion and morning sickness after a day or so of feeling good drives me insane. Not because I can't hack it (though I'd much rather NOT have to deal with these symptoms), but because it's keeping me from being in what I think is the right position to provide what I want for this child.

But I'm trying to be easier on myself. Every woman experiences pregnancy in different ways, and I can't keep denying the way my body's responding. And railing against it doesn't do anything for my blood pressure or general state of being. I'm trying to live better with this, give myself evenings to just read and watch TV without feeling guilty, actually take lunch breaks even if it means working an hour or so on the weekends (which I can now do from home, a definite plus). Funny how it all works out. I've spent much of my life living for others, working for others, beating myself into oblivion to make everything around me run smoother. Now I'm facing a situation where in order to work and live for someone else, I have to work and live for myself because that someone else is physically a part of me.

This child is a blessing in so many ways.

The "New-to-Us" Car

Bought a used car last night. It's another Saturn, same year as our dearly departed car, less miles, a few upgrades. The big selling point for me was that it had cruise control. Ever since I had surgery on my right knee, I'm unable to drive for more than an hour and a half without cruise control. Otherwise fluid builds up in my knee and things get stiff and very, very, very painful. Thankfully, anywhere I have to drive in the area rarely takes longer than an hour and a half to get to. Unfortunately, I can only spell Mark for an hour and a half whenever we go on road trips to see sights and visit family. He doesn't mind too much, but I do, because I do enjoy driving, especially in the Southwest. I'm also far more alert than he is in the morning, and it'll be better if I take the first leg while he gets a few more winks of sleep.

Other cool bells & whistles: keyless entry, power windows & locks, CD player. It's one detraction: it's gold with tan/brown interior. Not my fave color combo. If we had been a bit quicker yesterday, we could've gotten almost the exact same car but in silver. Oh well. I'll live with the color for all the other perks. Here's hoping we're not having to do this again in another four or so years.

Turning Point

I think I might have felt Baby kicking and punching last night. I felt a few odd fluttery spasms on one side of The Womb, and then the same thing on the other side a while later. It could've been Junior thanking me for the yummy dinner. Or it could've been gas. Or just some new symptom of pregnancy. Can't seem to run out of those. Still, it was neat and got me looking forward to the coming weeks.

I seem to be out of the first trimester woods. I'm getting five hours of sleep every night, and they're good hours. If I time my schedule a bit better, I may even be able to get six or seven hours consistently. I still wake up every morning at 4:30 AM, but now I can climb back into bed and get a few rounds of 20-minute light naps in before the alarm goes off at 6 AM. And my stomach isn't unsettled in the mornings anymore. It's nervous. I can't explain it, I can't seem to appease it, but at least food goes down and stays down.

But all of this could change by the weekend. Who knows? I don't think it will, though. It's like I can tell my bod's adjusted to Junior's presence. I feel more active, more alert, more stable. I think this finally means that my weekends are finally mine again. I don't think I'll need to spend this entire weekend passed out on the couch or in bed, recovering from a work. This has me so excited! I have a ton of stuff to catch up on. Like my on-line writing course assignments. And research for a writing consultant business so pals of mine want to start up. And how 'bout actually WRITING some more, eh? And then, once I get caught up, maybe I could start participating in housework again and give Mark a breather from running the house. The possibilities boggle the mind.

Total Loss

Our four-year-old car is totaled. Just like my last car, I managed to mangle the frame just enough that trying to fix the thing would be way more than the car is worth, and probably wouldn't be anywhere near as safe and stable as it had been fresh off the assembly line. And, of course, the car has grossly devalued in the past four years. Shockingly so, actually. So we're looking at a small loan to get even a decent quality used car. I'm of the "in for a dime, in for a dollar" school of thought when it comes to loans. I figure we might as well get a brand new car and try this again if we have to get a loan anyway. Mark's much more financially savvy than that, but if we can get a steal of a deal on financing for a new car, then he might think about a new one.

Last night we visited our young, dead auto at the tow lot and cleaned the puppy out. This was the first time I got a good look at the damage. Yipes. I really beat the shit out of that car, considering I was only going 30mph. Managed to hit the other car with enough force and at the right angle that it spun and slammed into me, smashing my rear bumper to bits. In addition to crumpling the front right side like an accordion.

And the car still reeked of that godawful airbag dust. But hey, at least I've got my Tori Amos CDs back.

A New Family Tradition

When my mother was about 14-15 weeks pregnant with me, she was in a car accident. Crossing a state road, got clipped at the rear by an 18-wheeler. Did a 360 into a ditch and a 180 back out of it. Gave her some bruising and whiplash, decimated the groceries in the trunk. Probably rung my bell a bit, too, but I turned out just fine (except for a few pesky genetic issues that were already set in stone by then for me).

So Friday afternoon I decided that I couldn't let my mother outdo me and a root canal while pregnant certainly couldn't compete with a car accident while pregnant. Yup, good a reason as any to run a red light, right? Before I give all the fascinating details, be reassured that I am fine and Baby is fine. I have a small scrape on my arm from the airbag deployment, a tiny bruise on my knee from hitting the bottom of the steering wheel, and a few sore muscles on my neck and where my seat belt kept me in place. Oh yeah, and my ego's a bit battered, but it can take it. Baby's ticker is still going at 159-161 bpm (my nurse says this is an indicator of a girl), and we even heard some more kicking and punching today, not that I can feel it yet.

It all started Friday morning when I decided that Mark and I needed some Mommy and Daddy time. We arranged to take the afternoon off and grab some lunch together and then maybe pick up a baby toy or some baby books or something equally sappy. I was on my way to pick him up, listening to Tori Amos and getting a little day-dreamy about the whole "and baby makes three" thing. The sun was shining, creating all sorts of fun shadows, and I was about to head under a bridge just before a stoplight. The car next to me slammed on the brakes, my first indication that perhaps the light was red and not green. I checked, saw the red, immediately slammed on the brakes, and started swerving to the left to avoid the car already pulling out into the intersection. For a few blissful milliseconds, I thought I had stopped in time. I relaxed and exhaled, only to come to a half-second later, trying to catch my breath, staring at a deflated airbag, a bumper (not mine) twenty feet in front of me, and a neatly crumpled hood (mine).

By this point, the delusion that I had avoided the accident was looking mighty preferable, and I had a hard time getting back to the present. Then I started to freak. The baby, the car, the money, the bay, the car, the money, THE BABY OHMIGOD THE BABY WHAT HAVE I DONE WHAT HAVE I DONE. Then I started to multitask like I've never multitasked before. Other people were out of their cars, checking on me, bystanders were calling the cops, I was trying to answer everyone's "are you OK" questions, assess the damage of the car, my own personal "broken/good" gauges, apologize profusely to Baby, call my husband, and sob. While trying to assure Mark that I was OK, but to just get here now, I realized the car was smoking slightly. In a strange haze of "what do I save", I fumbled for my purse, took my glasses off because they had been knocked askew by the air bag (and in my disheveled state I had failed to realize that I just needed to resettle them on my nose), and got the heck out of my smoking, greenish-yellow fluid-leaking car.

I made it to the curb and the sobbing started in earnest. By this point, two people had attached themselves to me: an EMT who happened to be there, and a very nice woman named Linda who took it upon herself to get me calmed down. The driver of the other vehicle stayed with the cars, checking out the damage. I'm pretty sure he was the first to ask me if I was OK, but I honestly don't remember. Eventually Linda got me calmed down and joking about the fact that my mother had been in an accident while pregnant, how we had just the day before replaced the car battery, how a root canal wasn't excitement enough for Junior, etc. This gave the EMT time to take my pulse (an adrenaline-fueled 120 bpm). And then the cops and paramedics started showing up. This was a haze of very kind faces making sure I was OK, taking care of all the details like getting the other guy's info, clearing the intersection of debris, towing the cars away, etc. At some point, the put me in a neck brace and started to get me on a backboard. I asked them to wait a few seconds until Mark got there so he didn't have to show up just as I was getting wheeled into an ambulance, because this was all precautionary, not necessary.

For those of you who have never been on a backboard before, I really don't recommend it. For the first half hour, it's not so bad. But by the time you've been on the damn thing for two frickin' hours, you're ready to invent an entire new language using nothing but profanity. Any pain I had in my neck from the accident was nothing compared to the back pain from being stuck on that damn orange backboard for two hours.

Everything slowed down and became basically ordinary at the ER. Some Xrays, a CAT scan (here's hoping Baby takes the trace amount of scatter radiation and turns into the Stops On A Dime Xman), a quick fetal heartbeat monitor, and we were ready for our friend PJ to drive us home. All in all, while Mark and I got to spend quite a bit of extra time together this weekend, this was not the manner in which I had hoped to spend it. I slept away most of Saturday, waking up only long enough to pick up the rental car after Mark found out that his driver's license had expired. Sunday I was supposed to host a writing group, but we were hammered with a decently impressive snowstorm yesterday and had to cancel the meeting. And I didn't have to mess with Earl at all this weekend (excluding the intense conversation we had Friday evening; note to self: Baby does NOT like spicy pork BBQ).

I was quite content not having any exposure to the reality of what emergency response folks do. But now that I've experienced their skills firsthand, I'm truly amazed and grateful that we have people like that in the world. Everyone who helped me get through Friday afternoon was amazing. I felt safe, protected, cared for. It was nice to have a moment to look around and realize that everyone wants to help.

Now I'm just waiting for the phone call that will tell me whether or not the car is totaled. If it is, this will be the third car Mark and I have lost since we've been together, two of them within days after replacing the battery. I think I've satisfied my adventure quota for a while. Hopefully at least for the next six months.

Good Stuff

I was so absorbed in my little "woe-is-me" tirade on Sunday that I neglected to mention the big, awesome news from last week. My brother is back from Iraq, safe and sound in the good ol' US of A. Of course I can't see the pipsqueak until he has time to drive up here in May. But he's back, and he'll be out of the Marines by the end of the week, maybe even done with Reservist duty. Big Sis is very happy. About that, anyway.

I actually had a somewhat normal morning, excluding the fact that it started at 4AM. But my stomach seemed almost pre-pregnancy stable. The "almost" reared its head when I tried to eat a nice bagel, egg & cheese sandwich Mark whipped up for me. The concept of such a breakfast sounded good when I asked Mark to make it for me. The concept started losing its appeal as soon as it was placed in front of me. I took a test bite and my stomach advised me that taking another bite would be most unwise. So Mark got a spiffy little breakfast instead. But at least there was no bucket hugging this morning. (And I've decided that the bucket's name is Earl Chunks.) And I also found a blog that made me realize things could be a lot worse. This poor woman. She seems to have the support network she needs to get through this, and she doesn't have to be anywhere for 40hours a week for that silly money stuff. But I had a brief glimpse of what she must be suffering on Saturday when I couldn't get anything to stay down until I finally passed out from exhaustion and gave my stomach time to sort itself out. If every day of the past 14 weeks had been like Saturday morning, I would be making appointments for a vasectomy and a tubal ligation the day after I delivered.

I'm so glad my body is behaving today. I was just so tired of it all last night that I cried for a good ten minutes. I needed today to be a good day. Who knows what kind of day tomorrow will be, but at least today is good. At the moment. :)

Bad, Bad Week

So much for pulling out of the first trimester woes. They were back with a vengeance this week. I'm thinking of naming my constant companion, the green bucket of former mopping yore. Afterall, we're getting to know each other fairly intimately, especially after yesterday morning. It took my stomach five hours to realize that it actually wasn't supposed to return the items I kept trying to give it. And then there's this whole sleeping issue. Junior seems to think that it's not all that important. That four hours of sleep is enough to enable a pregnant woman to get through a forty-hour work week. This child and I are going to have words if next week doesn't show some glimmer of improvement.

And don't even get me started on the DDJ. Or my writing. Not after this week.

Survived

I made it through the first and the worst of the three-part root canal experience. The next two appointments will not be as long and won't involve nearly as much rooting around in my mouth. The worst part about yesterday's appointment was anticipating it. My stomach was a mess yesterday and the day before. And the minute I walked out of the dentist's office, I felt 100% better, back to the normal I've been feeling since the middle of last week. Yes, mornings are still strange, and apparently Junior really likes having me up at 4AM every morning. But everything's really calmed down from what it was throughout the first trimester.

I've got a couple posts nattering around in my head, mostly about my adjusted writing goals for the year and such. Hopefully I'll start posting at least a couple times a week soon. It all depends on the DDJ and if things start to settle a bit here.

Wha?

I had a post about entering my second trimester that went just before my little snippet about getting a root canal. I know I didn't hallucinate it because I even had some comments on it. I'm confuzzled.

Can We Say Fun?

The mildly annoying toothache that started up this weekend just became a real pain in the ass. Turns out I've got enough decay in one particular tooth to make my dentist cringe in sympathy pain. Thursday will see my initiation into the Wild World of Root Canals. Thankfully the procedure is just like having a cavity filled only longer (well, "just like" from my perspective, at any rate). And our dental insurance is nice enough to keep the price tag on this way down. But, wow. Didn't expect to deal with this kind of a first during my first pregnancy. Joy.

Ten Weeks Down

I got on-line over an hour ago to post something deep about myself and my pregnancy. I made the mistake of trying to catch up on my blog reading first. (See, I've been out sick after lasting a glorious half-day at work yesterday. I keep having pep talks with Junior about letting me sleep through the night and operate with a passably normal stomach so I can go earn that silly little thing called money that will be very important for things like food, clothing, and diapers. Sometimes they take.) Sheila linked to a post by Patrick Nielsen Hayden about some crank's fun ideas about women and hard SF. The ensuing comments on the topic sucked an hour out of my life. It had its entertaining moments, lots of headshakers, but it left me with an overall thought that The Battle of the Sexes will be perpetuated forever, with women always having to prove something and men never having to do so. So that hour was a pretty sad hour.

But it wasn't why I hopped on-line. I wanted to post because I'm now a quarter of the way through my pregnancy. That's not the milestone I'm most interested in, of course, not when I still feel like a foreigner in my own skin. Not when I still can't guarantee I'll be able to get through a full week of work. Not when breakfast still decides to make a return appearance a couple of times a week (though thankfully not this week...yet). As I went through yet another day spent at home instead of at work because the thought of being more than twenty feet from my bed and my fridge makes me not only nervous but faint, I thought that I might be having a better time of the first trimester if I actually enjoyed my job. Wouldn't it be easier to work through my feelings of ickiness if I liked what I do for fourty hours every week? Maybe, maybe not.

Such thoughts lead me to consider why I don't like my job...and why I didn't like the one before that...and so on. I can make excellent arguments for why I haven't been happily employed ever since I realized that I didn't want to get my PhD. And all of these arguments skirt around a greater potential issue: the problem isn't the job(s), it's me. No wonder I skirt around it. But something about being pregnant at the same time that my brother's in Iraq, my mother's going through her own private hell at her job, my grandfather's been diagnosed with lung* cancer, and Mark's grandfather just survived a heart attack, really got me thinking and analyzing and taking a severe look at how I perceive myself and my life.

At some point during my childhood, I told myself that life would be "happily ever after" once I finished school and got married. I'd get a job and be successful, as would my husband, and we'd have a perfect nuclear family, and eventually we'd retire to go RVing through the country and harass our kids. But here's the thing: that "happily ever after" mentality led me to the grossly inaccurate assumption that life only required effort through school and finding a mate. That everything would be peaches and light with no active input on my part. Disney's probably the biggest culprit behind such a horribly flawed reasoning. I mean, we never see the "happily ever after". It's just assumed that everything will be OK from then on out. That just getting together was the hardest thing they'd ever have to face in their lives (sometimes worked in with another Big Issue that, miraculously, always resolved itself seconds before or after they got together; nice timing). This combined with my parents' big push for me to get a college degree before I got married (with the unspoken caveat of "or you'll end up like us"--which sounds way harsher than I mean; my parents did have it rough until my father became an officer in the Air Force, but things always seemed to be more or less average middle class after that; of course, I could be wrong, I was only 6-18 at the time :)), led me to the conclusion that life wouldn't be anything to get worked up about after college and marriage.

Gotta love those fun, debilitating delusions. Even though I just blamed Disney and my parents, it was a more or less conscious decision on my part at about the age of 12 to come to that incorrect conclusion. And then, genius that I am, I let that flawed logic rule my life until a few weeks ago. The logic hasn't been working so well the past couple years, always leaving me bewildered when I realized that I hated whatever job I had at the time and that I couldn't do the work I wanted to because life circumstances just don't allow me to not have a guaranteed income at the moment. That twelve-year-old inside me as been crying out "no fair" for a while now, causing a lot of hurt and confusion and depression and general ickiness. I never understood how I could be so unhappy with true love beside me and a successful education behind me and gainful employment to boot. I started to think something was wrong with me, that I was just a bad person. Mark kept insisting that this couldn't be true because he loves me and he wouldn't if I were a bad person. Since I trust his judgement of character pretty much implicitly in all other things, his argument made logical sense. But I wasn't buying it.

Then I got hammered with the reality of Life After School and Marriage over the past month. And one thing became very clear: "happily ever after" is not a passive thing that just happens. It requires the same effort that life required before. Even as light bulbs starting flaring to life in my noggin, so did a whole lot of frustration and shame. I couldn't believe that I had honestly deluded myself for so long that life could require anything other than my active participation to be a happy thing. How much of the past 2-3 years have been a hell of my own making because of one stupid mistake in reasoning in my childhood? I could really go on, railing away at myself, but I suppose that's something best reserved for my next session with my therapist. And, honestly, I know enough about myself that at least 75% of the diatribe would be more for the sake of drama than anything else. What can I say? I'm a writer with a long history of Drama Queen tendencies.

My big cathartic moment most likely came in the middle of a crying jag after a sleepless night and while my stomach was debating the pros and cons of retaining whatever I had just fed it. I had probably just missed a good day or two of work and gotten some odd comments on it. And the realization that my body, this vessel that I've known for more than 26 years, that I've grown accustomed to, that I know so well, is suddenly as unfamiliar as an undiscovered planet--all that combined to make me realize that Life Just Happens. You have to deal with it as it comes, preparing when you can, analyzing when you can. But you can't sit back and go "it wasn't supposed to be like this". For starters, it's hard to get anything done that way. And, the longer you sit around and look at something in dismay, the more new things there'll be to shake your fist at once you stop.

This realization took greater shape as I really looked at the way those I loved were dealing with their own unique events. My brother still cracks the same annoying younger brother jokes in his emails and calls. My grandfather insists he only knows he's sick because some doctor keeps telling him he is. My mother keeps "getting back on the horse" and doing what she has to do to make a bad situation better and she still manages to find the time to ease her daughter's "ohmygodwhatshappeningtome" fears. And then there's Mark. Taking all the cooking and cleaning and grocery buying in stride and always finding a way to make sure he has the right comforting things to say or do when things get rough for me. After I get over the initial reaction of "I'm a selfish twit of a person who doesn't deserve all this", I realize that I must be doing something right. No matter the silliness of "happily ever after" and how long a part of me clung to it, there had to have been at least one part of me doing the right thing and actually living my life instead of railing against the things I couldn't control. Otherwise, all these fabulous people in my life wouldn't be in my life.

I know that was a lot of personal junk to throw at you. It's worth it if any of my readers stopped and thought about their own "happily ever after" notions clinging to them from childhood. And I'm not exactly one to shrink away from airing my dirty laundry to the world. Probably part of that Drama Queen stuff again. Sometimes you just have to share those insights, even if they should have been obvious, even if they revealed a flaw you might be a tad uncomfortable with. Now the only thing I'm left to ponder is how long this insight would've taken were I not pregnant.

*I originally typed that as "lunch" cancer. This could be a sign of that other pregnancy sypmtom, something about reduced mental acuity. Damn horomones.