December – April brought mountains of snow, power outages, high winds. You might picture me snuggled all warm in my house by the fire, writing brilliant words by the thousands.

You’d be wrong.

You’d be better off picturing me huddling by the gas stove, wearing 13 layers of clothing and shivering so badly that typing on my Alphie was out of the question. Brain freeze does not inspire plotting nor characterization!

We finally moved into spring, that lasted maybe 15 minutes. Seriously. Summer waddled in and it’s basically the same weather as what we had in January, but no snow – just rain. Not freezing – just 100+ degrees out. Now we huddle around the air conditioner, hoping to stay cool.

And again, writing is a chore. We’ve been having violent electrical storms. Major lightning strikes taking out trees and power. And of course, like a good girl, when it lightnings, I turn off my computer and unplug the network cable.

Is this just all Mother Nature’s conspiracy to disrupt my writing? Could be. But she didn’t count on my Alpha Smart. Almost twenty hours of battery time, recharges in a few hours, and works pretty darn sweet.

Bring it on Mother Nature! I’m still writing!

=)

carrie

I work approximately 40+ hours a week at my day job, I work 20+ hours a week designing websites. I also design/repair jewelry in my spare time. I moderate online writing classes for a writers group, I write on three blogs, and I write.

For some reason, I’ve also decided to take three online classes this month, and for some other crazy reason, I started writing two YA novels. At the same time.

Yes, I need to be locked away.

But, can you leave me with my Blackberry please?

=)

carrie

The rest of the story (I bet you read that just like Paul Harvey didn’t you?)

We got home from work at about 10:15pm.

No backhoe. No pickup. No Kent.

A quick peek in the hole reveals no dead bodies, either animal or Kent. Our luck is holding.

We walk into the house, noses held high, in case we might have to run due to the odor.

Nothing.

I peek in the bathroom. No Mount Vesuvius of poop and best of all, the toilet has quit wiggling and blurping.

“You go flush it.”

Always make the man go first. This is why we got married. Men flush first, and squish spiders. It’s an unwritten rule.

I, and all seven cats backed away slowly.

Flush.

Perfection.

I love Kent.

That night it POURS. I mean rock ‘n roll thunderstorm with buckets o’ water.

No way is Kent coming in this. Best he stays home. Besides, we’re flushable. All is good.

Next day at 2pm, as I’m heading down the road, Kent shows up, backhoe in tow.

3:30pm, Kent is done. “Come help me put these lids on.”

He’s a man of very few words.

Chris helped him put the lids on, and paid the man. $490.00.

Now, most of you know I work in the restaurant biz right?

This man worked through rain, mud, poop and God knows what else on just a few hours notice. He lifted tons of mud, drove out to our place 3 times, and -even though neither of them knew it- probably saved Chris’s life. =)

And he asks for $490.00.

So what did we do?

We tipped the septic tank guy.

=)

And we hired him to come back in a month or so to put extenders on the lids so we never have to do this again.

I love Kent.

=)

carrie

It was spoken by FDR about Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941.

I always remember December 7, it was my grandmother’s birthday and I always thought how horrible that year must have been for her.

But, I digress.

December 7, 1941 was about the Japanese attacking the US at Pearl Harbor. After today, I firmly believe it was all about septic tanks.

Please, take no offense, this is tongue-in-cheek and yes, sarcasm. But also true.

Read on.

It started yesterday, Monday (of course) at 12:50pm. Ok, technically it started on Sunday night when the toilet wouldn’t flush, but I’ll let you guess the consequences of that.

So, yesterday, I called Roto Rooter, left a message. Waited an hour and called a local plumbing company. No answer. See a theme going here?

Finally, local plumbers call back. What’s the problem? Oh, I said, I think we need snaked. You have a snake don’t you? Of course, we have a snake. (as in, you idiot in order to be a plumber you HAVE to have a snake.) (please follow the bolded words, it will help in the long run) They asked various questions (no, we don’t have a child that would stuff a rubber duck in the toilet…yes I think it’s somewhere in the line) and said ok, we’ll be out late today.

Suh-Weet! Rejoice! Jack Daniels!

4:50pm. The local plumbing truck IS COMING DOWN THE ROAD! WOOT! the local plumbing truck IS DRIVING ON PAST! crap! (another of my favorite words lately) quick cell call, all is good. local plumbers arrive safely.

4:52pm. local plumbers enter home with their snake. Their 5 foot long, baby, wussy, can barely be called a snake, snake.

ah. well. I say. completely underwhelmed.

We’ll just check this out, fix it and be on our merry way.

But of course.

4:54pm. Ma’am, where’s your basement?

Downstairs. (I’ve always been helpful that way, and yes, did let him wander into the spare bedroom first before pointing him in the right direction)

4:55pm. Second plumber emerges from bathroom. You have bigger problems than my snake can handle. Where’s the basement?

All men descend into the basement and discuss manly things. All arrive upstairs, tracking mud and poop (please, I’m going to be using poop, shit and crap a lot in this post) across my ivory berber carpet.

“Where’s your septic tank?” (like this went so well with the where’s your basement routine)

I point out the front door to the yard. “There.”

They both look out at the horizon.

I bet, even those of you who DON’T have one, realize a septic tank is buried. UNDER THE GROUND.

I point down. “Four feet approximately.”

Their horror cannot be contained. They start walking simultaneously backward to their truck. “um….I suggest you call someone to dig up your septic tank. It would be cheaper.”

Not so quick to let them escape, as I’ve now been peeing in the woods for 24 hours straight in high winds and cold temps, I ask…”do you have a snake?”

“Nope, didn’t bring that.”

“No. Snake.”

“Nope.”

I was pretty sure I mentioned snake in all previous conversations. “So you’re saying you didn’t bring a snake?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you think calling in someone with a backhoe to dig up our yard and pumping all this poop is going to cost more than a snaking?”

“That’s the best way to go.”

And they jumped in their truck and left.

Hubby and I were in our truck in less than 15 min., to rent a snake from Ace Hardware. $50 later, in possession of the snake, a quick stop at wal mart to use the “facilities” and we’re off.

Problem is, nothing to snake. No plug. No blockage. Crap.

This morning 8am. Cordell pumping. “Exactly what do you want ma’am.”

“My septic tank pumped.”

“Is the lid exposed?”

Helloooo…..”No, the lid is UNDERGROUND”

“You need to dig it out before we’ll come out.”

“You don’t have a backhoe?”

“No.”

Having seen their ads in numerous phonebooks, newspapers etc. I know damn well they have backhoes.

“So you want ME to walk into that HOLE and dig out MUD to expose the LID so you can pump it.”

“yup”

“That’ll take days.”

“Call me when you’re ready.”

Asshole.

Nine more phone calls, six more answering machines, three more requests for a backhoe later, and I’m in tears. Where does a woman come up with a backhoe to dig a trench, a tractor to life off a 3 foot in diameter cement lid, a guy to pump poop, the patiently waiting man with the tractor to drop the lid back into place, and the patiently waiting man with the backhoe to scoop all the dirt back in.

*as in, ain’t gonna happen*

Finally, good ol’ boy Kent calls. He says HE HAS HIS OWN BACKHOE.

*cue the hallelujah chorus*

Kent says, just dig out the hole, and I’ll pump it today.

Dig. Out. The. Hole.

Does anyone realize THE SEPTIC TANK IS FOUR FEET UNDER GROUND?

granted, hubby is no Jack Lalane. No Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’s english.

I head off to work, confident that this is going to take days. weeks. get used to peeing in the woods.

hubby calls in the middle of lunch. He’s scooped FIVE count ‘em FIVE shovelfuls and given up. He’s having a heart attack. He’s dying.

“Ok, well take a tums, and I’ll be home in a bit.”

Tums cures everything.

I come home. DH is in the house, no equipment on the front yard, but a message on the answering machine.

“Hi, this is Kent. I know you said don’t worry about it, but I’m coming up this afternoon with my backhoe and I’ll fix it today. It’s pert neer (swear to God that’s what he said) 1 o’clock and I’m coming in now, and I’m fixing your problem today.”

Well. You go Kent.

Kent showed up with his backhoe, tore apart the yard, and about 2:15pm, all noise stopped. “Wow,” I said. “He must be done.”

DH pipes up. “I bet he ran out of gas.”

We both laugh hysterically at this point, because – wouldn’t that just top things off?

We both run for the door, knowing he’s run out of gas.

Wrong!

Broken hydraulic hose. No more digging out with the backhoe, he’s doing it by hand.

What a man.

I love this guy.

At 4:15pm, we tell Kent we have to leave. Work. He says no prob, got any 2 by 4′s?

why yes. yes we do.

Laughing hysterically (still), we throw ourselves into the truck, dressed in our going-to-work-clothes and drive (cuz what the hell….tire tracks in the yard? no biggie!) to the hog shed at the top of the hill, load a ton of dirty 2 by 4′s and drive them back down.

because kent, wonderful beautiful kent, is DETERMINED to clean the septic tank tonight, but the backhoe is broke, so he can’t put the septic tank lid back ON.

Oh, did I mention that before we left home the toilet was burbling and actually bouncing up and down in it’s place. Chris said um…the toilet is making these odd blurping noises.

I peek into the bathroom. Toilet is dancing, blurping.

“I’m sure that’s normal.”

*insert more hysterical laughter*

So we head to work. Knowing darn well when we come home, the septic tank is going to be holding the body of Kent, innumerable cats, various raccoon, one humongous skunk and possibly the backhoe itself.

5 hours at work slide by at a snails pace. A snail trying to motate through poop.

We pull into the driveway at Mario Andretti speeds. New land record.

No backhoe in the yard.

No pickup in the backyard.

There’s a good chance the septic tank guy has lived through the procedure.

We creep into the house.

No septic tank smell.

I designate Chris to be the first to inaugurate (such as is) the bathroom.

It works.

I am no longer constipated, I no longer have to pee in 50mph wind gusts, I no longer have to read a newspaper with the paper fluttering in the breeze.

Thank God.

Thank Kent.

He’s coming back tomorrow to finish the job. I don’t care what he charges. Really.

But wait until I tell you about the rest of my day.

=)

carrie

Anything that can go wrong, will.

And my personal take on it, Anything that can go wrong, will. And then it will always get worse.

Take for instance, my place of work. I love my job, really. Ok, occasionally I’d like to imagine myself doing the scene from Terminator 2 when he says “I’ll be back” and then POW. But so far, I’ve restrained myself.

At work last week, my favorite employee turned in her two week notice. I was crushed. Heartbroken. Tried to talk her out of it. No luck. I sat for a time, before I went upstairs to tell the rest of the staff the bad news. “Oh,” said one girl. “She just told us. And remember how I was going to work every day this summer? Yeah, I won’t be able to do that anymore. Sorry.”

Pow. Murphy strikes again.

A friend of mine asked me to put a bid on his company’s website. I did, and I lost the bid. No big deal. If he would have called and said hey, you lost the bid, I would have said “Ok! Look at all the free time I have for writing now!” But he didn’t. He had his secretary’s secretary email me the news.

Bang. Hello Mr. Murphy. Thanks for the personal touch.

I bought my mom the COOLEST solar light for her garden for Mother’s Day. Unfortunately, it won’t ship until May 18. So, today I tell her I’m sorry, if will be late. No problem she says, she just ordered something for her garden that won’t ship until the 18th either, what a coincidence. Um. After a few well-placed questions, it turned out the solar light was SO COOL, she bought one for herself.

Blap. Murphy, buddy, quit kicking me while I’m down eh?

So now you’re wondering, how on earth is Carrie going to connect the entire travesty that has been her life for the past two weeks and turn it into a blog about writing?

Watch this.

Conflict. Each and every scene you write in your book has to have some kind of conflict. The more the better. I finally got that point. I understood we needed conflict, I got that there was internal and external. I DIDN’T get that it was to be in EACH. AND. EVERY. SCENE.

But now Murphy’s Law has shown me the way. Conflict is everywhere, and yes, it can always be made worse.

It’s everywhere, it’s every day, it’s every scene.

So apply my version of Murphy’s Law to YOUR manuscript and see if your characters aren’t suddenly infused with conflict. It will make their life hell, and your editor will be tickled pink.

And Murphy, nothing personal, but just stay away from me for a couple days eh? Absence makes the heart grown fonder.

=)

carrie

Highs have included finishing the massive amount of web design work that has hit this past week. Starting on Tuesday morning until just a few hours ago, I was deluged with web design work. Tsunami’d.

But I did it, I caught up. Now I get to send out the bills.

I also finished two ads for the restaurant, did 3 loads of laundry and squealed over the dead mouse the cats left at the end of the sidewalk. At least they didn’t bring it in this time.

I also wrote 500 words in my new ms, revised 7 pages of an old one, and went through umpteen emails.

So what could possibly be on the low side?

Eating two ice cream bars.

Oops. (I did workout for almost 50 min to make up for it though)

And a small black moment, that I haven’t quite shaken yet. It’s still circling my head, waiting to pounce. You know how when you’re worn out and tired you always get sick? I always get sick and depressed. I’m not sick this time, yet! but I did get my own personal black moment.

What if I’m just better as a beta reader than a writer?

What if I just don’t have what it takes?

What if I really didn’t burn off enough calories to negate the two ice cream bars I ate?

These are the burning questions.

Something to think about.

=)

carrie

I know I live a frenetic lifestyle, zooming here and there, holding down more jobs/part-time jobs/cats than any normal woman should, but it’s always worked for me.

Some days just require more chocolate than others. No problemo.

But the past week has gone above and beyond the duty of lets-destroy-carrie-and-bring-her-to-her-knees.

I won’t tell you about work, because everyone works, and everyone runs wildly because of it – unless you’re a Professional Couch Potato, in which case, hats off to you. I won’t mention the side hobbies, the jewelry, the websites (ok, I might growl about those later), the laundry, etc. Because EVERYONE has the same problems. Right?

But what I am going to whine about (what, you didn’t think this was a whining post?) is people. Ok, and cats. But mostly people.

This past week I’ve had people comment on my hair (ohhhh ….umm..did someone NEW cut your hair? that’s a different look for you, isn’t it?) my clothes (you look so pretty tonight, especially compared to the last time we saw you) my eyes (why is that one eye like that? is that a birth defect?) my weight (yeah, we’ve all put on a few pounds over the winter – some more than others eh?) my shoes (those shoes are about ready for the trash pile huh) and even my bra (oh, is that one of those new silver colored bras? oh no, wait…that’s just gray isn’t it?)

Seriously, people. I realize that most of the time, I’m a public figure. I work out in the public, I should expect a certain amount of “commentary”.

But when does it go beyond commentary and into gosh-bob-that’s-none-of-your-darn-business?

Believe it or not, the bra comment wasn’t the final straw (that was my chiropractor doing ultrasound)

It was actually the your-characters-are-flat comment. (See, you KNEW I’d bring it around to writing somehow!)

I know it was a rough copy, I know it was first draft. But yikes. Critiques can hurt. Or they can make you try harder.

For me, I’m generally inspired to drink four vodka lemonades, eat handfuls of chocolate while ranting wildly about how clueless people are….and then when I’m hungover with sugar blues the next day, I let reality slide in, and think that maybe yeah, maybe I could do better.

And sometimes, it takes two or three of those vodka/chocolate days before the realization sinks in.

And sometimes, by golly, it just never happens.

Today is going to be a vodka/chocolate day. And tomorrow, well, tomorrow my characters won’t be called flat anymore, by God.

But I’ll still be wearing any ugly shirt over my chubby body, which should be ugly enough to cover up my gray bra, reading through my lopsided eye with a bad haircut while wearing worn out shoes.

But tough beans.

At least I won’t have flat characters anymore.

=)

carrie
ps word count? 7066
cats? 3 birds, 3 mice

I’ve always been a pantser, and quite thoroughly enjoyed being so. Set me in front of a blank word document and zoom! Off like a Maserati on race day. And then I come to the critical Chapter Four. And come to a screeching halt like a wasp hit by Aqua-Net.

Chapter Four is my downfall. My albatross. The black cat crossing my path. My broken mirror.

How does this happen?

It’s all that darn PLOT’s fault.

Grr.

My characters are out there having charming witty conversation. They’re dressed well; hair is combed into place, lip gloss on. (the heroine’s not the hero’s) They might be dining, ball room dancing or fighting over the last egg roll. Then I type CHAPTER FOUR.

And they roll over and play dead.

I poke at them with a stick. C’mon, I say. Come out and play.

Nothing.

What if I give you a limo ride and some champagne? I wheedle.

I turn up the speakers on my computer, just in case I’m missing some small sound, some assent. Some clue.

Nothing.

Fine, I say. I’ll just carry on without you. And I bring out the killer of all writing programs. The big guns.

Write or Die.

I crack my knuckles, twist my shoulders a few times like Muhammad Ali before the George Foreman fight, play a quick game of solitaire to get my mind muscles moving.

CHAPTER FOUR. I type it into the program.

‘A limo arrives at the front of their office and both Polly and Peter step inside, her silk dress sliding like silk on the leather seats.’

Umm.

Backspace, delete, do not save.

The Write or Die screen starts to turn a violent shade of red. I shake it off. Ok, that was just a warm-up. Here we go with the real thing.

CHAPTER FOUR.

All right, we’re cooking with propane now. (I live on a farm in Iowa – it’s propane)

‘Polly slapped Peter across the face with her right hand. Slap! There. Take that, you monster. Take that! And with a huff, Polly stomped away in a huff.’

Stop program. Delete. No, I really don’t want to save it. Back off, buddy.

This situation obviously calls for more stringent measures. Vodka and/or chocolate. Putting the program on hold, I dash to the kitchen. Miniature brownies on a paper plate (we writers don’t have time to wash dishes you know) and a splash of vodka in a plastic glass with diet lemonade. (we writers like to keep our girlish figures)

Chomp. Gulp.

Oh yes, now I feel the power. My figurative cape and tights are in place. Back off Chapter Four, here I come.

CHAPTER FOUR.

‘Peter and Polly sittin’ in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love, then comes marriage,
Then comes ….’

DELETE DELETE DELETE!!! DON’T SAVE! WHO INVENTED THIS DARN PROGRAM ANYWAYS! DIE! DIE! DIE!

Ahem.

So, my original point being, whether it’s flying into the mist, being a pantser or just writing willy-nilly on the Write or Die program, you still have to have some semblance of a plot.

And that’s where my plotting class and admiration/reverence/regard for Laurie Schnebly comes into play. Laurie walked me through sixteen chapters of a book, three scenes in each chapter. Including the thrice-damned CHAPTER FOUR. I have an outline, and yet I can still pants. I can still fly into the mist. I can for once, overcome my personal writers block.

Look out CHAPTER FOUR. I’m kicking butt and taking names.

=)

carrie

I know everyone out there gets spam. You can set your message filters on high, you can put your virus scanner on spam block, but you’re still going to get spam.

It’s just a fact of life.

But who are these people? What on earth do they think they’re accomplishing? Am I really going to rush to their website to buy Viagra at a 50% discount over other major department stores? Do I need dental insurance from a company in Zimbabwe? Should I really try one of those pedi-nail things on my seven cats? (that last one would be a d’oh….come near a cat’s feet with an electrical spinning device that makes a grinding noise? seriously)

And even here, on my pretty little blog, with my pretty little ass up in the corner. People post spam. Weird stuff, with weird website addresses. Some in Russian, some in English, some in Swahili. Luckily you don’t get to see those little gems, I delete ‘em before they get out to the general public.

Which again, leads me to ask….why? Is there reams of people out there whose jobs would be at risk if all spam suddenly stopped tomorrow? Would the national debt be even worse than it already is? (not possible might I add) Would spammers children and babies be without food on their table if spam suddenly stopped?

Something to think about I guess.

But, why not come up with good spam? With how to get chocolate stains out of your new white polo spam. Favorite recipe of the week spam. Twenty percent off at Old Navy spam. Now that would be useful spam.

Ok, done with my ranting for the day. =)

spam spam spam spam….yeah, it’s stuck in my head too.

carrie

This is not so.

My hair needs coloring. Seriously. Like maybe twice through just to cover all the gray.

I have a twitch. It alternates from eye to eye, but it’s definitely a twitch. On the other hand, I seem to be getting better tips at the restaurant. Maybe I’ll keep it.

I generally receive 150+ emails a day. Note to self – go digest next time.

My chocolate addiction has morphed into chocolate enslavement.

It takes two Cadbury creme eggs every day. And I’m saying that like a heroin addict.

I haven’t written on my book in 2 weeks.

My socks haven’t matched since Groundhog Day.

My brain is moving at the speed of a snail in the Olympic Figure Skating coliseum.

Jack Daniels is my friend.

It wouldn’t be so bad, but three of the teachers are remarkable, demanding, challenging, awesome. They work my brain, they draw things out of there I didn’t know existed, and then they make me work with the stuff that pops out of it.

And I love it.

I’ve learned so much, that as my friend Kelsey says, I’ve grown new wrinkles in my brain.

And I’m still learning. And next month, I’ll be learning more.

Why’s that?

Why because I’ve signed up for five MORE online classes, that’s why!

Send the valium – please. And my hair colorist. She’s got a big job ahead of her.

carrie