So Here I Sit...

It's raining outside.
The horses are fed.
The cats are fed.
The Demon Chickens have complained about the weather and been fed complimentary crackers for their discomfort (three eggs yesterday, go Towanda!!!)
The dogs are in old-doggies-got-snacks-they-didn't-need comas.
I'm alone in the house.
I've got coffee at my hand and a cat on my lap.

And here I sit. Not writing.

I've got plenty of ideas. I'm working on three WIPs at the same time. (I can't believe that's happening, but thus far it's been smooth sailing). My fingers are actually itching to write. So why aren't I? I'm currently processing the possible snags that are keeping my fingers from latching onto my pen.

A large part of it is that I've got queries out on my YA. I imagine that one day I'll get to a point where that won't affect me so much. But right now it does. And it's worse because I've had a couple of requests for fulls. Those agents passed in the end (I'm not hating on them in the slightest, just having fulls requested was a new, big step) but they all had good things to say about my YA. And they had specific reasons for passing. One already had a client working on a project in the same vein as mine, close enough anyway that they felt obligated to stay devoted to their client. If I was that client, I know I'd want that devotion, so that's fine with me. The other agent said that the story just didn't grab them the way they felt they should have been grabbed. I get that because I can't paint on commission for the same reason nor can I read a book just because it's a bestseller. If it doesn't hook me, why read it? The insidious poison in these rejections is that both agents said they'd look at other projects if I had any (either the projects are something they don't rep, or they're WIPs so that's out right now) and the second also said that they'd look at revisions on my YA. But they didn't tell me what to revise. Not even a hint. Yet another agent said that my YA didn't fit into what she currently wants to focus on but that by just what she read, she feels it's strong and well written and bound to land me an agent.

Of course, the first thing I did was squall because I was rejected. Especially after the full requests, which were terrifying and totally exciting all at the same time. That took around 24 hrs for each rejection, less for one because immediately upon receiving that rejection, we had equine high drama at the farm and I didn't have time to pout. Then I was elated that these agents had RESPONDED to me! They had actually written letters commending my writing and telling me that they thought I have what it takes to be successfully published! That was followed by a brief (fifteen or twenty minutes) regression of pouting because they thought I was good, but not good enough FOR THEM. This isn't true of course.

Now I'm on to the dithering stage which is by far the most frustrating and least productive. When I'm pissed off, I can throw hay bales around, groom horses (nothing gets dirt out of a horses coat like angry elbow grease) or find something that needs to be pounded, hauled or dug up at the farm. When I'm elated I have the patience of a Saint and can deal with the most obnoxious baby horse behavior, even when it includes the kicking and stomping of my body parts (reminder, baby horses pitching fits = three hundred pounds of temper tantrum). I also tend to act like a goon and make everyone around me smile.

But when I'm dithering because I don't know what to do with my writing, it's a disaster. It's like being told you have cancer, but no one gives you treatment options, although they say that you're going to make it. I mope, then I try to write, then I consider revising my YA and pull it up on the computer. Then I sit and stare at it because I don't know what to do. I look at my main character and try to decide how she might be more likeable. Then I'm afraid to change anything for fear of making her less like herself. I examine the setting, but I don't change anything because I've been told by the agents that my world building was great. I look at the timeline and tweak. Then I go back and change it because it was fine and the tweaking looked like tweaking. Then I abandon the YA I'm peddling and go back to the three I'm working on. Then I stare at them and wonder if they're as strong as the one I'm peddling. I don't want to regress in my writing. Meanwhile, everyone around me tries to help cheer me up. The most successful is the young (ten whole years younger than me, and a total whippersnapper) guy I work with, code name Carlos. This is because he simply picks me up and throws me over his shoulder and runs until I squeal like a piggy and feel like I'm sixteen again. But it still wears on me, thinking that I might be failing myself by not rewriting but also thinking that I might be screwing up my YA by changing something agents have said they enjoyed.

So here I sit...

Although now that I've blathered all of this, I have to run like a mad woman because I'm finally going to see Avatar with my prego sis, code name Fenris, and my daddy. Fenris will have to pee in the middle of the movie, she's already warned me (it's a prego thing, she says) and my daddy might well nod off. But it'll be fun nonetheless. And maybe when I come back home I can write some. Or edit some. Or maybe just stare at the words some more...

Because This Sort of Thing is Just so Fun...

I was perusing the blogs I follow (because I couldn't possibly do something useful like work on a WIP or, perish the thought, go to bed, since I have to get up at six) and ran across this over at Lauren's Crammed Bookshelf and I couldn't help myself. She passed it on to all her followers so now I'm giving it a go!


Here are the rules:

The rules are pretty simple. Answer the following questions with Single Word answers (HA! Let's see if I can actually do this.) then pass this along to 5 other bloggers. Make sure you let them know about it though.

Your Cell Phone? iPhone

Your Hair? Braided

Your Mother? Spamtastic

Your Father? Love

Your Favorite Food? Cheese

Your Dream Last Night? Realistic

Your Favorite Drink? Water

Your Dream/Goal? Published

What Room Are You In? Den

Your Hobby? Horses

Your Fear? Fire

Where Do You Want To Be In Six Years? Published

Where Were You Last Night? Home

Something That You Aren't? Inefficient

Muffins? banana

Wish List Item? Agent!

Where Did You Grow Up? VA

Last Thing You Did? Write

What Are You Wearing? Jammies

Your TV? Left

Your Pets? Nineteen

Friends? Awesome

Your Life? Mine

Your Mood? Serene

Missing Someone? No

Vehicle? Truck

Something You Aren't Wearing? Makeup

Your Favorite Store? Art

Your Favorite Color? Black

When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Dinner

Last Time You Cried? Unknown

Your Best Friend? Soulmate

One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Library

Facebook? Yes

Favorite Place To Eat? Kitchen

I tag: Anyone who follows or visits my Blog!!! Go to it ya'll! :D

Demon Chickens From The Planet Zorgnog

That title isn't just for show. The Demon Chickens really exist. There are four of them in my yard and they're named Jemima, Towanda, Woebegone, and Franklin. Now I know what you're thinking. How did Franklin end up with such a square name? Well, he didn't. Originally, he was part of a pair, Beans and Frank. But then my sis, code name Fenris, took Beans to her house to chase her girl-type egg machines, and renamed him Mango. Then Mango met an untimely demise (don't asked, it's best left unsaid) and so now Franklin is the sole remainder of the questionable canned food dynasty. But he does get the girls.

And oh my ladies do have the goods! I'm proud to say that I have two of the loveliest, smartest egg-making-bug-hunting-mouse-stomping featherballs to ever walk the earth. Yes, I did say mouse-stomping. All my Demon Chickens are Jersey Giants, which makes them two foot tall thunder birds, capable (and in Towanda's case, more than willing) of killing things most chickens would run from. Jemima is the real thinker though, always watching how things work and then trying to figure a way around them. Primarily this means the gate to their pen. Lucky for me, chickens the size of a toddler don't sneak very well. Towanda, on the other hand, is serious about egg production. She either gives me double yokers or two eggs in one day. Now I was told by a chicken expert that this is impossible. But he never met Towanda. Nor could he explain two hens and three eggs in the same pen in one day either.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, and in a separate pen, is dear sob story Woebegone. You see, Jersey Giants are horrible brooders. Meaning that they aren't good at hatching their own eggs and raising chicks. Nobody informed one of my sis's hens of this and she hatched out seven eggs a few years ago. Or she almost hatched out seven. She got six. The seventh was Woebegone. We looked in on the hatching one morning, noted the progress, and then went shopping. Eight hours later, we checked again. And found one egg in the exact same place, with the exact same hole, and a very exhausted little chick inside. My sister and I were raised in the wild wood. We knew that the chick was going to die. So we broke him out anyway. And don't you know the darned old thing lived? Yup. He lived in my bedroom for months, until he was the size of a cat. I coddled him, and nursed him. And named him Woebegone. For which he's never forgiven me. Yes, that dear little chick became what all spoiled rotten babies become: Spoil brats. He chases me. Jumps at me. Spurs me (don't laugh until you've had a nine pound rooster leap into the air and hit you with two inch spikes with the force of Cassius Clay going for the title) and pecks me. He's ungrateful, hot-headed and full of crap. And I love him anyway because he beat the odds.

Woebegone is also who provoked me to blather this post out at eleven pm. Because, you see, he's also ridiculously hysterically funny. His right wing won't extend all the way (it was wrapped around his head in the egg, which is what prevented him from pecking his way out in the first place) but he never seems to notice. This causes problems when he tries to flap while on his perch. Usually, he falls off. Sometimes, he only falls off halfway, which means he hangs upside down flapping and squawking before dropping into a disgruntled heap. The best is when this happens in the middle of the night. Woebegone is a light sleeper, unlike Franklin who nestles on his perch with his head hanging straight down towards the ground so that he looks dead. When I take the dogs out for their last bathroom run, Woebegone invariably wakes up. He begins crowing. Never mind that it's pitch black outside. Then he starts flapping. If you're really luck, this awakens Jemima and Towanda who begin squeaking in reproach over having been disturbed. Occasionally they wiggle around enough to make Franklin (still doing an imitation of chicken dinner) to sway back and forth, head swinging like a pendulum. Woebegone's flapping leads to an unbalanced rooster, which leads to Woebegone hitting the ground eventually where he quickly scrambles upright and begins strutting to and fro, completely undeterred and proud to have made an impression. Any impression, just so long as you've noticed him and marked his greatness.

Yes, my Demon Chickens are unlike any chickens you've ever hear of. I have suspicions that they're an advance scouting party of super chickens sent from the planet Zorgnog to size up the human resistance. But that's okay because they make good eggs and they keep my life interesting. And besides, when the Demon Chicken leaders commence their attack on us and their subsequent war for planet earth, I'll already be in good with their kind.