So much time back in the school yard

Ladies and gentleman, two things are official:

1. The galleys for Max and Menna are at the printer! For those of you who are unfamiliar, six months or so before a new book comes out, the publisher will bind a couple hundred advanced copies. These are called galleys or arcs (advanced readers copies). These go out for reviews, blurbs, etc. We are on our way, and looking at the interior, Max and Menna finally looks like a realy book.
2. I am spending entirely too much time in middle school zone. Allow me to explain.

So, I have all of these goals and stuff. I always have all of these goals. Publishing this book is the culmination of many, many, many years of goal setting. But there are more. I want to have more time to write. To do this, I am working on a masters degree so I can, eventually teach part time, hopefully freelance part time, and write! This is what I want... eventually.

I spend so much time thinking of this one moment in the movie Parenthood-- Steve Martin's character is running out the door, and his wife asks him if he has to go. His response-- My whole life is have-to. It resonates. And I hate that it does because my dad always expressed feeling that way. This officially means that I am becoming my parents (not that this is bad, just unsettling).

Now, trust me, I understand that so much of what is going on with me has to do with choices I am making. I love my job for now, but I know that I do want to work for myself eventually. So I am doing full-time work, full-time school, book promotion, trying to start a freelance job. But, at the same time, I have so few moments to myself. Today is glorious. I am caught up and have a rare afternoon free. So I am chilling on the couch in my pleasantly cool living room watching really dumb action movies. This is phenomenal.

So, here is where middle school comes in. One of my friends has a co-worker that up and quit this week-- walked out-- because of a percieved injustice. Now, in actuality, there was no injustice. There was someone creating drama, and then walking out on her job when she was called on her drama. I saw this co-worker the other night and found myself having a hard time talking with her. I was just annoyed with this person that I actually do like.

Now, those of you who know me understand that I am somewhat rigid in my sense of responsibility. A lot of it comes from seeing the way people react to having a sick family member. This extends to not screwing over your co-workers and acting like a pouty child because sometimes work isn't fair. I cannot describe how much this situation, which has absolutely nothing to do with me, fills me with rage. And I have realized, that it is out of jealousy

Yes, school and the book promotion are parts of my life that I have chosen. But even without those, I have work, family obligations, a very "have-to" kind of life. The last time I had the luxury of being able to walk out of a job that annoyed me was high school, and even then I had too much pride and self-respect and consideration for my co-workers to do it.

I must ponder, then... perhaps is my anger towards this situation that has nothing to do with me, based on jealousy? I dream about being busy with things I love doing instead of things I have to do. I love the idea of teaching, writing, freelancing, having time to work on some furniture refinishing, having a garden, not having to schedule time weeks out to clean my room. Understanding that not wanting a traditional 9-5 job for the rest of my life is not unique to me, seeing someone just walk away from that without planing for the future when I am working my butt off to get to the point where i can do it responsibly just aggravates me.

Does this jealousy make me an eighth grader? I admit its partially jealousy, but it is also partially disappointment in watching an adult behave like such a child.

Perhaps it is me that is acting like a child.

Oh, I mean why is THIS so soothing?

Does foreboding count as a sixth sense? Like, when someone asks you if you are psychic, can you say “no, I forebode?” Because if so, I am super crazy powerful. I’ve been scattered this week for a variety of reasons. But, that is part of it. I have this feeling of impending…

I jump to foreboding because, over the past several years, when I have had this feeling the end result is, in fact, something bad. But I guess it doesn’t have to be. It is just this feeling that something is about to happen in a big way.

I realized that the title of my last post makes absolutely zero sense about what it says. “Why is it so soothing…” was actually not intended to be a post about the State College Trip. It was intended to be a post pondering why staring out my bedroom window at the cemetery calms me down so much.

And why does it?

I never had a goth phase. I’m not obsessed with death (unless it is the living dead in a George Romero movie, and then I am on it). But it is just peaceful , and beautiful, and full of history, and it soothes me.

I’ve also realized that frenetic doesn’t quite mean what I have been using it to mean. It sort of does, but there is a more negative connotation to it. It isn’t negative. My mind moves at a million miles an hour. I find so many things fascinating beyond measure, and so my interests and (scarce) free-time are as scattered as my thoughts.

And something about staring out my window at a graveyard helps me focus my thoughts, turn my attention to something and plug away and be productive.

I see possible explanations to my conundrums:

1. Maybe I feel a sense of foreboding because I spend a lot of time staring at a graveyard
2. Maybe the actual physical evidence that there is an ultimate culmination to this world helps me unscatter
3. Maybe I am just weird.

The FINAL manuscript for Max and Menna went to the publisher on Sunday-- holy moly.

I can’t read it again for a while. Every time I do I get all whimsical and nostalgic and silly. I am now turning my attentions to other pursuits, including a marketing plan for the book and novel #2.

I leave for vacation three weeks from tomorrow. It's my first one in almost five years. I might just explode. San Francisco, here I come!

Why is it so soothing...

So, for those of you who have asked, yes, this weekend was the Penn State trip. I didn't get to meet Serg, but I DID talk to Katrina (an investigator from PRS that you probably recognize from the show) and Ryan Buell, the main dude and writer.

Firstly, Katrina is a sweetheart. She laughs easily and sincerely, which is something I always appreciate in a person. We got to the social hour after a really, really interesting lecture on demonology (we'll see if I sleep tonight). We were late and had to sit sort of far away from everyone else. I believe we were the only people who had never been to a PRS event before, and, admittedly, the only people there that are not paranormal entusiasts. I find it intersting, and intriguing, and I want to learn more, but I don't ever see myself with an EMF meter. But, who knows?

Anyway, after hours of watching the mingling but being a bit too far removed from it to organically participate, Katrina appeared at the table and sat and talked to us for 30 minutes or so. That lady can hang! You don't quite know if you want to shop with her or arm wrestle her, and that is my favorite kind of person.

So, during this half an hour, Ryan sort of popped by the table (I'll attach photos if I can figure out how) but then got distracted. I sort of felt for the guy. As much as I was so excited to sit and talk to him and pick his brain about his book writing process, EVERYONE there wanted to pick Ryan's brain about SOMETHING. He was gracious and patience, but as someone who would be infinitely uncomfortable with that level of attention, I was mystified by how well he handled it. Perhaps he is more a people person than I am (actually, he defnitely must be-- were I in his shoes, I would have simply been mute or intoxicated).

In fairness, I was slightly awkward and dorky. Both the PRS business manager and Katrina expressed interest in something relevent to me-- one looking for a marketing job, and the other thinking about trying to become a writer-- and I gave them each one of my cards. I still feel like a tool for doing it.

Anyway, Katrina finally wondered on, and Sarah and Steph asked if it was time to go. My conversation with Ryan thus far had been "hello" but there was a mob of people around him. That, plus my assuredness that if I tried to talk to him I would come out sounding like a babbling idiot (cuz, you know, its what I do), meant that I was ready to go. But, my wonderful friends reminded me that this guy knew a lot about the book process, and is someone I admire and respect, and I would regret it if I didn't try to go have a conversation with him.

So, I grew a set and did just that. We had a brief, but really nice conversation about books and cemetaries, etc. Again, I got about 90 seconds of his attention, but my gut reaction to the guy is that he is frenetic. It's a word I use to describe myself, and I always find it exciting to meet other people that match that description. He is also very sweet, and attentive, and tall.

I didn't get to talk to Serg, which bums me out, but who knows... perhaps another day and another three hour road trip is in my future.

Steph and Sarah made this weekend a blast. I have the best friends ever. Sarah sacrificed her birthday so we could go meet the people who live in my tv, and endured wayyyyyy too much of listening to me talk about my book (I think, if I don't back down, she might institute a book burning in November).

Moving on from Max and Menna

No secrets today, just flat out truth telling. I am tired. This has been a crazy week.

I have mid-terms due for school starting on Tuesday. Next week commences the kick off of my “Lost Summer” in that I am travelling more than 40% of the time this summer (exciting places, but also lots and lots of airplanes…).

And, the revised manuscript for Max and Menna is due to my publisher, oh, TODAY, and I am just not happy with the condition of it. I have three more chapters to do a deep edit on tonight, and then I have to go back and update the file. I am old-school--I have to edit on paper.

I hate to say that like it is a chore. Yes, it is a task, but working on the book is never a chore. It makes me happy, but the process is bitter-sweet.

I have been writing Max and Menna in some form or another since I was sixteen years old. Taking into account that I really don’t remember much before the age of 4 or so, that is more than half of my life. I seriously assign the act of writing this book as a personality trait, it is so ingrained in me. I’m Shauna, I’m 5’3.5” tall (yes, I count that half an inch), I have green/gray eyes, I am always a little bit fat, I’m primarily Irish and Native American, and I am writing Max and Menna. Working on this novel has sure as heck been more stable than my circle of friends, or hair color over the past 13 years.

It is exhilarating to be “done” but also sad. Much like my beloved, raggedy dog, this story has gotten me through a lot. I spent many a nights when my mom was in the hospital toying around with it on my laptop. Focusing on it got me through some of the ordeal with the blue-eyed boy. When I can’t sleep, writing this has been one of my favorite pass times.

I have three other novels in progress. I love writing all of them, and I am passionate about all of them, but finishing this story and finally hitting “send” will be a huge milestone in my life. I just hope the world doesn’t hate it.

So what do I focus on next, my dear (and one—thanks Wade) loyal blog reader? Quick synopses for the other books in progress-- I would love some feedback on where to turn my very scattered attentions now:

• Chocolates for a Comatose Man details the wife of a coma patient who divulges to her readers how much she truly hates her husband and their loveless marriage. When he awakens, she is convinced that his amnesia is some sick mind game, and so she invents a make-believe family to test his convictions. How long can she continue to immerse him in a past that he never had? (60% complete)
• Sleep is about a college student who grew up in an extremely strict Catholic household. When she begins to exhibit symptoms of a mental illness, her family and community declare that she has lost Christ. She is convinced she is, instead, losing her mind. She tries to balance the storm in her head with her beliefs, not really sure which one is more real, or pressing. (30% complete)
• To-be-titled novel about Reesa, a seventeen-year-old girl who’s mother has just passed away. A breast cancer survivor, her mother died at the hand of her Oncologist’s wife, who suspected an affair between doctor and patient. Reese struggles to understand what motivates the adults around her, while coming to terms with her mother’s death, her own adulthood, and the secrets her father has kept from her. (20% complete)

And, tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow I meet Ryan and Serge, a writer and photographer respectively, both of whom I really admire. Can I do it? Can I make it through an entire evening without calamity? Feedback is always appreciated on this front, too!

Shhh.... Don't tell

OK, I am opening my book of secrets, and here is one for you:



I watch romance movies sometimes.



Don't misunderstand... it doesn't happen often, and I will take Aliens over Titanic any day. But, every now and again, the estrogen intrudes and I watch a sappy, romantic, sweet movie and start to feel all mushy inside.



I watched Evening over the weekend. It's about a mother on her death bed sharing with her daughters the tragic story of her one true love. It smacks of Fried Green Tomatoes (apparently, it is some unwritten law of fiction that charming, blue-eyed characters named Buddy have to bite it). It, like everything else, got me thinking.



Why is it that in love stories when everything works out at the end and people end up getting together, that is a romantic comedy? Apparently, happy endings come with hijinx. But, when it is a serious story, there has to be some kind of tragedy. Think about it...



Nicholas Sparks writes love stories that aren't comedic, and I refuse to watch them because of his insinuation that love is only beautiful and possible if someone dies at the end. This is true of so many other romances, though... think about it. The Way We Were, Snow Falling on Cedars, Untamed Heart-- all great love stories, but there is no happy ending. When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, While You Were Sleeping, all goofy and funny and everyone lives happily ever after. The only exception I can think of is Love in the Time of Cholera, but even in that book it takes them seventy years of heart ache to get to the point where they get to be together. I find that, in and of itself, tragic.



Love is, apparently, only beautiful if it is laced with sadness. Poe postulated on this in his work. I am guilty of it myself, and when everyone has the opportunity to read Max and Menna you will truly recognize the hipocrisy in what I am saying.



Years ago, this is something I wouldn't have been able to comprehend. Now, it irritates me slightly, but I get it. Why? Because the kind of love most of us find is boring for spectators.



I think of my most favorite memories of being with him-- my blue-eyed boy from the Chinese restaurant-- and they were simple, and quiet, and so privately wonderful. Average Consumer doesn't want to pay $10 to watch two people sit on a couch watching Law and Order and laughing. But those were my favorite moments-- knowing I was coming home to someone to listen to me talk, and someone who knew when to put their arm around me and make me feel better no matter how stupid the reason that precipitated my hysteria was.



And here is another secret-- I always knew that my love story would end in tragedy. I wouldn't admit it then, because those nights on the couch with Chinese food and silly Pauly Shore movies were the happiest of my life.



But now, now I know why I am so reticent to talk about it. I don't want to be defined by this story. I want this to be a footnote in my biography, and perhaps discussing it too much will make it a chapter. Heaven help me if it makes the back cover copy.



Nonetheless, it is important, and every time my sappy side rears its ugly head and I throw some pink, frilly DVD in, I start thinking of these things.



And how there are so many secrets left to tell.

The effort of being good...

Being around my mom at a holiday would truly inspire Scrooge himself to believe in the power and beauty of the human spirit. Here she is—shrunken from the cancer, always feeling tired or sick or discouraged—and when the calendar heralds the approach of any holiday, no matter how minor, my mom begins to put together this barrage of gifts and cards and plans to ensure that everyone has a good day and feels appreciated.


This is one of many, many of my mother’s traits that I envy. I watched her pour over the aisles at Target Saturday for last minute Easter gifts. Her list of people she wanted to get “a little something” for was longer than my Christmas card list. Ironically, this came the night after Q and I had a conversation about how much it depresses me that I suddenly find it so hard to express that I care about what is going on in my friend’s lives.


And please read that carefully: it is so hard to express that I care, not to care. I do care. I have wonderful friends who have been absolute God-sends through all of the trials of the last few years. I used to be the kind of person that sent cards for no reason. I used to buy carefully planned birthday gifts and then wait like a kid at Christmas for the chance to give them to people. I used to know everyone’s birthdays without the help of Facebook. I used to remember to ask people how they were doing.


It bothers me more than I can say to precede each item on that list with “used to,” but it is sadly the truth. I have a job that puts me on the road and in airplanes a lot. The sterility of a hotel room is not conducive to fortifying my relationships. I am in school half time—I tell myself every damned day that I don’t really need a masters and I should just drop out, but I won’t. It’s important to me. I am working on promotions for the book, on finishing the manuscript for the next novel, cleaning the house, walking the dog, paying the bills. I need to get a passport photo, and pick up a few birthday presents when I have a moment, get my oil changed, send in my 401K rollover… and on… and on…


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. I am officially a grown up, and right now, a pretty crappy one. Every time I see my mom at a holiday, I just feel guiltier and guiltier by my seeming inability to be as thoughtful as I truly want to be.


But, this has prompted a pretty intense self-reflection and questioning period.


A few months back, as the turmoil of divorce, family kidney and bone marrow transplants, and basically three years of sheer and utter hell began to subside, I realized something that scared the hell out of me. The realization: I wasn’t as nice as I used to be.


I said it jokingly to friends—“I think I killed Nice Shauna”—but the jokes were backed by abject terror. I genuinely like people, and when I found myself grumpy more often than not, snapping at strangers (h*ll, snapping at friends), and finding completely benign actions to be incredibly irritating, I was scared. Could I go through all that had happened and emerge as someone who at least resembled who I was before?


I have said before in this forum that I am proud of the person I’ve become through a lot of turmoil. Again, I didn’t grow up in Darfur, so I am not over-assessing the intensity of my experiences, but nonetheless, I handled more in three years than most people do in ten. It isn’t possible to deal with it all and come out unscathed, but is it possible, over time, to get over the bad impacts and maintain the good? Can I be less grumpy, but keep the super-human emotional fortitude I’ve gained? Can I be less skeptical of all things male, but maintain my ability to detect people’s bullsh*t?


If it wasn’t for my mom, I might say no and resign myself to being a little bit of a b*tch for the rest of my life. But I can’t do that. Half of the turmoil I went through was caused by watching her go through things that are infinitely worse. If she can do it, and she can manage to still want to play Easter bunny for every neighborhood kid simply because seeing them smile makes her day, then I can remember to send a birthday card…. After I finish school…

It rubs the lotion on its skin...

I had an interesting dialogue with a co-worker today. This fits within a greater trend…

Feminine women always want to fix me.

I’ve said it before—I am the world’s worst girl. My shoes never match my outfit, the idea of seeing the new Nicholas Sparks movie makes me kind of nauseas, I have skimpy eye lashes, usually have mascara smears under my already-dark-circled eyes, and lose earrings like it is a profession. Something in estrogen-enhanced people responds to me like an eight year old to a Barbie—let’s play dress up and get her a Ken.

So my co-worker, who is totally sweet and very good at being a girl, was telling me about spray tanning. She outlined in detail how, when you arrive at the tanning place, you will be given lotion to put on certain areas where you might streak, etc. I listened intently, and when she finally finished explaining, I simply said “it rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again.”

She didn’t get it. In fact, she looked at me as though I was Jame Gumb. I was amused. Then again, I’ve always been quite adept at amusing myself. But then, I started to get very, very concerned.

These are the people that nod and get that “ah-HA” look when I tell them I am a writer. I hear it now “Yes, she is weird, but, you know, she is a writer.” But, therein lies the terror.

I watched this absolutely awkward interview with Augusten Burroughs once. The blue-eyed boy from the Chinese restaurant introduced me to his work, and I must say, his writing is intriguing. However, this interview was a train wreck. Burroughs was clearly nervous, and the façade of the absolute confidence his written voice holds just crumbled.

Dude. That. Is. Me.

Already, I have a list of names of people who have ordered autographed copies of the book. I know I’ve said it before, but all I think when people say that is “WHY?” I can’t match my shoes to my outfit. I can recite the movie Aliens from start to finish, but never know where my car keys are. It’s me. I am the train wreck. And here I am, publishing this book and the whole train wreck behind it.

I am absolutely adept at laughing at myself—I rather enjoy it. And I do know that all of this worry is hinged upon the book being a success and the people who own the limelight wanting me in it. I have to admit it, though… I want success. I want this book to be a success.

But wow… it rubs the lotion on its skin??? I bet you all can’t wait for me to spring that one on Matt Lauer.

Can Shauna Avoid Calamity... for once?

For those of you just tuning in, a quick catch up--

1. November 1 I will be a published author! The experience of fulfilling a life-long dream is surreal, and I started a blog to document it...

2. During the seven years it took me to finish my book, I got a crash course in "real life" in some really brutal ways. Because I am a story-teller at heart, I cannot resist the urge to give this blog some kind of narrative arc, and tell the story of how I got to the point where I could tell the story of Max and Menna

3. Two weeks from today, I am going to State College, PA to meet a writer and photographer, both of whom I really admire.

So, I'm going to get back to the story of how I became able to write my story. I am, I am steeling myself for it. I need to do it for a variety of reasons, but tonight, I just can't. I think tonight a far more interesting topic is actually a poll:

For those of you who know me (which, lets face it, is all of you...) let's facilitate the following discussion:

What is the likelihood that when Shauna goes to Penn State and meets Ryan and Serg (afforementioned writer and photographyer she admires) she will avoid making an idiot of herself, seeming weird, aloof, or otherwise off-putting, or talking too much about some random topic like the climax of King Lear or the origin of the work defenstrate. In short-- is there a chance at all that she'll make a good impression?

Necessary background knowledge-- I talk too much, laugh too much, or simply fall mute when I am nervous. Meeting people I admire makes me nervous. Both men are, admittedly, on the dreamy side, but this is honestly not the source of my admiration. However, dreamy men also make me nervous.

Thoughts, predictions, encouragement, or mockery welcome. Go for it. Take my first ever reader's poll.