Instructions for the Authors in Bloom blog hop included the direction to share a gardening tip or a recipe. Since I have a brown thumb and couldn't possibly offer any sound gardening advice, I will instead gift you with the most awesome recipe known to man....

Buffalo Chicken Dip

INGREDIENTS:
8 oz. pkg. cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup blue cheese or ranch salad dressing
1/2 cup Frank's Redhot Buffalo Wing Sauce
1/2 cup crumbled blue cheese or shredded mozzarella cheese
2 cans (12.5 oz. each) Swanson White Premium Chunk Chicken Breast in Water, drained

DIRECTIONS:
Heat oven to 350°F. Place cream cheese into deep baking dish. Stir until smooth. Mix in salad dressing, Frank's RedHot Sauce and cheese. Stir in chicken. Bake 20 min. or until mixture is heated through; stir. Garnish as desired. Serve with crackers, chips, or vegetables.

Since you were kind enough to stop by my blog, I'd like to offer a little prize to one of my readers. I am giving away a $10 Amazon gift card and a Kindle copy of my debut novel, Drew in Blue. This is open to U.S. residents only (due to international giveaway laws and stipulations). Entries will be accepted April 9-April 18, when the blog hops ends.

To enter, leave a comment on this post. If you'd like an additional entry for this prize, you may follow my Facebook fanpage. Be sure to let me know what name you followed me under on Facebook, and don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win!

Thanks for dropping by! If you're looking for the Traveling Story line, here it is:

Line 46: What’s the point?

Don’t forget to visit the other fabulous authors involved in the hop, conveniently located on the link-list below:

1.)   What is the one book you couldn't live without?

That can change on a regular basis. I have a pile of books I reread over and over again. I’d probably have to choose 1984 by George Orwell. No matter how often I reread, it still stands out as an incredible cautionary tale. Scary stuff, especially since it doesn’t seem so unrealistic anymore.

2.)   What can you see out your window at the moment?

My complex’s parking lot. And the car parked next to mine that is jutting out about four inches too far, making it difficult for me to get out of my spot. No, I’m not bitter.

3.)   What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?

I was forced to sample hog maw, which is a pig’s stomach stuffed with potatoes and sausage and other disgusting things. I would like to avoid ever sampling that again. Blech!

4.)   What fictional character would you most like to marry?

Mark Darcy from Bridget Jones’ Diary. I love him just the way he is.

5.)   If ever a fictional villain was going to win, who would you want it to be?

The zombies. The zombies should always win. It’s only right. Oh, characters? Guess there should be more than brain-sucking to qualify as a villain. This is such a hard question, though. When I’m reading, I kind of root for the villain, in a sense. I’m a little pro-Moriarty or pro-Big Brother or pro-Morlocks. The villain is always the most interesting character in a story, even if they’re completely whackadoodle.

6.)   How many types of cheese can you name off the top of your head?

Does head cheese count? Probably not. I’m not much of a cheese aficionado. The important cheeses that I can throw out are mozzarella, American, cheddar, provolone, parmesan and….um…apparently that’s all I can name off the top of my wee head.

7.)   If you didn't want to be a writer, what would you be?

Rogue demon hunter.

8.)   Can you play a musical instrument?

I used to play the clarinet in school. It didn’t get me dates, that’s for sure. It did give me the occasional lip splinter, though…

9.)   Do you own a Kindle or any sort of e-reader?

Kindle!

10.) If so, how many books do you have on it?

Not a huge number right now. Mostly I have a rotating selection of books for my romance review blog, The One Hundred Romances Project. I delete them after they’re read though, since that’s protocol for dealing with review copies.

11.) You just got published. In a glowing review, someone calls you the next (insert name of famous author). Which author has to watch their back now you're on the scene?

All of them. Because eventually, I will be the queen of the writing universe. All will bow at my feet. Muwahahaha.

Okay, it's pretty challenging, successfully stringing together 90,000 words in a coherent fashion. But I think that's become the easy part, for me.

No, I'm not being snooty. I'm just saying that it's 'easier' to formulate a story and throw it out on paper. I'm not including the editing process. That's when things get a little tricky.

That's when you have to worry about word count standards. And pacing. And that blasted 'conflict' need that looms over your head, day in and day out. But once you finish editing, get your manuscript polished, get things ready to find a home for your work, things fall into place, right?

Nah.

Because then the real hell begins. Suddenly, you have to write the dreaded QUERY LETTER. A short synopsis of your story that sums up the plot, and makes the agent and publishers come begging at your door for more.

Sure, you can do that in 250 words or less. After about seventy-two tries.

And, like three months of stressing out over how to summarize it all.

But, eventually, you find a query letter that seems to work.  Probably after ten violent agent rejections that tell you your query sucks and you should never, ever quit your day job. Never fear, though, eventually the winning query takes shape, and somebody finally says, "Yes!" to your work.

Woohoo! Game over!

Ha ha. Just kidding.

It's only the beginning. Because now the query letter is the least of your fears. Now you have to come up with things like a witty author bio. And back cover copy. And, if you're truly cursed, a TAG LINE.

That's right, ladies and germs. Sometimes you don't have to just sum up your story in about 250 words. Sometimes you have to do it in one sentence.

These are the things that make my brain hurt. Okay, I don't have to worry about the tag line, should the need arise. I already stumbled upon that some time ago. I cling to my beautiful little tagline like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

Cover copy, though, makes me lose sleep at night. Because I am a verbose writer. I am not a condenser. I like to expand on my themes, not minimize them.

So this is my mind-set as the New Year dawns. I must buckle down and come up with an enticing blurb about my story. Also, my current author bio is incredibly stale, so I must come up with a new variation that doesn't include realistic statements like, "When working, she often finds herself accidentally jamming a thumb in a rotten tomato., and then gagging profusely as she tries to get the goo off."

My life. It isn't thrilling.

Also, I'm trying to figure out what my official image of the cover might be. I find it surprisingly difficult to narrow down something to represent the whole story. I tend to shun couples on covers, mostly because I think it's more fun to let readers formulate their own image of the main characters. So I have a few ideas floating around in my head. And the ever-vigilant Lulu keeps coming up with awesome pictures that would suit. 

I kind of feel like I'm doing it for the very first time. I think, when you deal with that first publishing contract, it all moves in a blur. You don't quite fathom that you've managed to get yourself published, and you get lost in the whirlwind of activity leading up to publication day.

Daddy's Girl will be released in January of 2013. That gives me a year of preparation and ... well, I don't know what else.

Right now, I'm in the beginning stages of the process. Christmas is here, so I have time to revel in the celebration before I have to get down to work.

Currently, I'm trying to piece together a fresh author bio, and I'm mulling over the cover art questionnaire that I think authors simultaneously love and dread. We all have that perfect image in our head, but how do you describe it in a way that the artist in charge will understand?

A basic edit of D.G. will be due. Mostly ensuring the basic grammar and punctuation matches publisher style. Which means taming my out of control ellipsiseseses.

Of course, looking forward, I wonder how I will juggle everything. The social media presence, continuing to promote Drew in Blue and Indulgence. Keeping an eye out for anthology calls and getting a story together to submit and hopefully be accepted. The review blog.

Oh yeah, then there's expanding an editing my NaNo story. And getting back to the Jack and Viv story.

Man. It's gonna be a hectic year. And I'm not complaining. I suspect I won't have much time to whine about waiting for D.G.'s big publication day. 

This time around, I'll try to keep the blog active. Share the steps as I go. It'll be nice to have a timeline to look back on after the big day comes, after all.

So, until next blog... C ya!

I've been a bit mopey lately, mostly because of the realization that I can't make it home to Pennsylvania for Christmas. It's a little depressing, the realization that I'll be working Christmas Eve and the day after, and in between I may be able to microwave a slice of ham to celebrate the holiday on my own. But that can be remedied. I may have to scrounge pennies to do it, but after the holidays I'm sure I can beg for a few days off to go visit the Mommy. And aside from the moping, I've been thinking about how things have changed since I moved to G'ville.

More than a year ago, things sucked. I was unemployed, running out of unemployment funds, and still unable to find a job, no matter what I did or where I looked. I'd loved and lost and wallowed. I was on the verge of being published, though struggling with the reality that I had no support system. I mean, seriously. When you're about to realize one of your biggest dreams, and someone you love pulls you aside to remind you that your dreams aren't really that important, things have to change.

A year ago, I was caught up in anger, grief, betrayal, wounded pride, hurt feelings and on and on. I was a passive-aggressive machine with pointy teeth.

And I hated what I'd turned into. But I realized that lashing out at what doesn't matter is tiring. It was time to eliminate the bad and open myself to the good. So, I made the sweeping changes. Packed my bags and left town. Cleaned out the muck and kept my eyes on the prize.

Leaving behind everything you know isn't easy. Trust me. And things don't magically fall into place. I'm still borderline destitute. Still trying to figure out how to get things on track, in some areas.

But today, a year later, I'm happy with what I have.

I may have loved and lost, but I'm still standing.

I've got a fat Christmas tree brightening my wee little apartment. It's December and I'm trying to find a short-sleeved shirt to wear today. Tomorrow will probably include a writing stint at my favorite little coffee shop, where placing my order becomes less and less necessary every visit. Because they KNOW I want that damn milkshake.

I live near a wonderful friend who I don't see enough because of my dumb work schedule. But she's close. And if I get desperate, I can text and beg for five minutes of sniffing her baby's head so I can try to absorb some of the essence of youth floating around the little guy.

I have support now. Friends without demands and expectations that must be lived up to in order to earn their approval. Friends who are just as supportive in the bad times as they are in the good times.

My paychecks suck, but I work with great people. It was nice to run in and wave my new publishing contract in the air while receiving high fives and pats on the back. No suggestions that I had a silly hobby or that I didn't deserve what I'd worked for. Just congratulations.

Weird.

I love my new home. The funny accents, the crappy-but-entertaining driving habits of the residents, the city full of endless choices of things to do. A trip to the beach or a drive to the mountains takes no financial planning or schedule juggling. I smile every time I see that beautiful mountain backdrop framing the area, and I have to remind myself that trying to take a picture while driving is BAD.

Okay, I don't like that person who swiped my phone, but aside from that, G'ville has treated me well.

My writing has benefited from it all, too. Any doubts or fears I experience are simply side-effects of being a neurotic writer. Not because of anybody whispering in my ear that I don't deserve this. Today I'm trying to figure out which manuscript I should work on tomorrow. I have choices. Yay!

And of course, this week I get to celebrate a wonderful milestone: signing with Turquoise Morning Press! Daddy's Girl is on its way to print, and I couldn't be happier.

The timing of it all is perfect. I consider it my anniversary gift. My year of liberation culminating in placing my manuscript in good hands.

The offer came at the right time. There was a lot of musing happening in my head, since I'd started querying agents and publishers. See, I thought I wanted things that I didn't want.

I was taking the usual path: Begging for a shot at the big time. But as that first round of queries went out, I was questioning that goal. Over the last few weeks, as people have jokingly asked what I would do once I was famous, I kept fretting over the idea.

Famous?  ICK.

Reality hit. I don't want to be famous. I don't want to be Nicholas Sparks or Janet Evanovich, or lord help me, James Patterson. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams aren't my scene.

I want to write. I want to have an audience I can interact with. I like getting tweets from people who have read Drew in Blue and I love having the time to respond. I like the intimacy of that. I don't want PR people. I don't want to keep up with trends for the sake of keeping money flowing into my bank accounts.

I just want to write what I want to write. Real stories (and hopefully good stories) about real people. That makes me a small-press kind of girl.

Now, don't get me wrong. I want to make a living at writing someday. I just don't need to be a bazillionaire to do it.

The hardest thing to do was emailing an agent who had material, who had shown interest, and tell her that I was changing course. God, that sucked! This is someone I would have loved to rep me. A total dream agent. And I had to pass. Damn you, small-scale dreams! I hope I explained it well to her, because it was difficult to bow out and pay attention to the old gut.

So, yeah. That's where I stand right now. It's time to get off the couch and head to work, so no more rambling, you lucky bastards. I'm shutting up now.

I finally took the NaNo plunge and I won! Like my icons? *points right*

Boy, talk about working up to the last second. I got up this morning, desperately trying to ignore the nearly 4,000 word deficit I had to tackle today. But luckily, my procrastination gene went into hibernation, and I attacked it bit by bit today, aiming at the hurdle I needed to clear.

I'm sure the big question on a lot of NaNoWriMo participants' minds is this: What now?

Well, I know what comes first. A major apartment clean-up is in order! It's amazing how easy it is to ignore the growing piles of crap on the end of the couch. And how often I told myself, "Eh, I'll do it in December."

So, does anyone have a front-loader I can rent to tackle the clean-up? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

Then there's the rapidly expanding waistline. One month of NaNo, in my world, has become the equivalent of Super-Size Me, that movie about the dude who ate nothing but McDonald's? My gut is hideous. Too many nachos. Too many Chick-Fil-A trips.

Must. Exercise. Dammit.

Of course, after all that, the real worrying must begin. I utterly fear going back through and trying to sort out this crazy, poorly organized document. And I already know I'm severely lacking in conflict, which is a bad thing to lack in a novel. Conflict is kinda necessary, right?

Luckily, I knew the score with NaNo. I have no delusions about my story. I know I have a sloppy first draft, and the coming weeks will be about shoring things up, organizing, and trying to formulate a good second draft.

I'm very happy with the results, though. I violated all my usual writing habits to get this piece together. Instead of fretting over things, I just wrote, and found two very fun characters that I can't wait to round out more.

I can't wait to see the final product!

How did you all fair? Any winners out there-give yourself a shout-out here!

_

 A parking lot is where it all ends. 

He should be sitting at his desk. Eating lunch. Taking a coffee break. Playing Free Cell instead of doing actual work. Instead, he’s lounging on a bench. Next to her. Their proximity suggests inappropriate intimacy. It’s not friendly. It’s not neighborly. It’s not professional. Professionals don’t touch. Not like this. Kneecap brushes kneecap and knuckle brushes knuckle.

I knew it before I even stumbled across this scene. I knew it. This is the end of it all.


**********

“What are you thinking about?”

It’s our first date. He’s beautiful. Bordering on ethereal. His hair gleams and his smile intoxicates. I sit on my hands lest I give in to the temptation to run my fingers through his silky waves.

Out of my league. Too pretty for me.

His eyes are blue. Perhaps grey. I can’t tell. The restaurant is too dark, and I’m too preoccupied with the private admission that I will sleep with him tonight if he makes his move. Already I’ve lost the ability to say no to him, and I haven’t yet asked him his middle name. Not sure I can remember his last, even though he’s told me three times since we met.

He reclines back in his seat and carefully considers my question. “I’m wondering if you’re a white cotton panty or a Victoria’s Secret thong kind of girl.” The corner of his mouth quirks up as I debate whether I should throw a glass of wine in his face or clamor into his lap. It’s not a lengthy internal debate and in a matter of hours, he discovers the answer to his query.

 **********

 “I don’t want kids. Why would I want kids? I’m still a kid myself.”

“You’re forty ... ish. How old are you again?”

He scowls at me and pulls open the refrigerator door, cold yellow light spilling out onto the floor while he frantically searches for a beer. “I’m too old to have kids.”

In the living room, I cross my arms and slump down in place on the couch. Open floor plans are conducive for never-ending arguments. “I never said I wanted one with you.”

He stands up straighter. My penchant for passive-aggressive commentary has always done wonders for his posture. “Who else would you have one with?”

“Someone my age. Someone who wants the same things out of life.” He’s ten years older than me and I take immense pleasure out of reminding him of the age gap.

A clink of glass on counter top and a sharp hiss announce he’s located his poison.  He walks into the living room, head tilted back, drink pouring down his throat at an impressive rate of speed. With a sigh of appreciation, he lowers his bottle and eyes me carefully. “Nobody else would give you pretty babies.”

“Ryan would.”

“Ryan is a pansy. He’d give you babies pre-programmed for male-pattern baldness and beer guts.”

I flick my gaze up to his head, but hold my thoughts regarding his slightly receding hairline. “You’re not as pretty as you think you are.”

“I’m a beautiful man. I’m Adonis in button-fly jeans.”

I stick my nose in the air and struggle to become the living embodiment of disdain. “I can do better.” I can’t. He’s the pinnacle of what I can achieve in terms of beautiful men.

“You wish.” Suddenly he’s next to me, so close his breath rustles my hair. “If anybody is going to give you a baby it’ll be me.”

His territoriality pleases me, but I can’t cave. Not yet. “You don’t want one.”

He shakes his head and lounges back against the couch cushions. “Maybe if you want this bad enough, I’ll want it, too. Do you? Do you really want to be a mother?”

I frown and try to find a perfect level of conviction within me, to no avail. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I’m not sure I’d be very good at it. I’d like to make the attempt, though.”

He holds up the now nearly empty bottle of beer, gazing intently at the amber glass. “I think,” he says slowly. “I think you should be a mother. You’d be pretty good at it.”

“You think so?”

“Without a doubt.” His gaze wanders until he locks eyes with me. “If you want it, I want it. Let’s do this.”

 **********

 I move toward them. She’s younger, thinner, prettier. The Holy Trinity of Every Woman’s Worst Fears Come True. The questions arise as my pace slows. What does she possess that makes the deceit worthwhile? Did he betray me for superficial reasons? She has a flatter belly? She doesn’t yet have to rely on Oil of Olay like it’s the Elixir of Life? Is it ego?

They cheat. Eventually they cheat. They always cheat. God, men are pigs.

His shirt is mussed and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His hair is slightly askew. He looked like that just two days ago when I pounced on him the moment he walked through the door. Together, we defiled the kitchen linoleum. He never even took his shoes off. Even the lopsided grin he wore that day is the same. I pick up the pace, determined to confront him as the rage courses through my veins.

This is his I-Just-Got-Fucked face. I thought it was just for me, but apparently not. He’s an equal opportunity Fuck-Face.

I wish I weren’t a nail-biter. Nails are necessary to claw out the eyes of the betrayer. The best I can hope to do is give him a good eye-gouge. Unfortunately, he has good reflexes and I’d never hit my target.

I hate him. I want him dead. I want to rip out her throat. I want a gun. I want the conscience of a murderer-for-hire.

His eyes are drawn to me as I stalk toward them. I want him to show fear. I want panic. I want him to jump to his feet, ready to fight. He doesn’t even flinch. He whispers something to her and she glances at me. Wiser than I gave her credit for, she makes herself scarce, scampering away like a scared rabbit.

His eyes are back on me, and I falter. As much as I hate him, the expression on his face makes me want to rush to his side. To hold his hand and tell him everything will be just fine.

Hate, I remind myself as I sit next to him. Hate him. You must hate him or you won’t survive this.

 **********

 “Things have been going well,” he says, not tearing his eyes from the open newspaper in his hands. It’s Sunday morning. He’s rumpled and rested. His face suggests the afterglow of sex when, in actuality, it’s the flush of another exhilarating episode of Meet The Press. He’s a whore for Tim Russert. I think he’d reconsider his sexual preferences if he had a chance with old Tim.  “I think we’re doing a good job with this relationship thing this time around.”

It’s our third attempt at this thing called love. Fourth? We’re the epitome of on-again, off-again. The second off-again resulted in his marriage to a woman with a severe aversion to penises and an impressive lust for voluptuous redheads. The last off-again ended after my father died. A bottle of Cutty Sark and a shoulder to cry on destroyed my resolve, and once more I let him into my bed and into my life.

Now here we are, the vomit-inducing picture of domestic bliss. He’s reading the paper, and I’m making pancakes. All I need is a lace-trimmed apron. All he needs is a hand-carved pipe and a ribbon of blue smoke curling merrily around his head.

I smile, despite the fact he’s jinxed everything with that one simple statement.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re getting to be old pros at this.”

He stops me as I drop three pancakes onto his plate. He pulls me close for a kiss. I skillfully avoid burning him with the skillet.

Doomed.

 **********

 “Why?” I finally ask, tired of the silent void that separates us.  The breeze blows, stirring my hair. A pigeon stops at our feet, debating his chances at a scrap of bread or maybe a piece of popcorn. His final verdict is we are of no use to him and he flies off.

He’s staring at his shoes. A small victory is claimed in his inability to look me in the eyes. I’ve got the high ground. I win. A winner in a losing battle.

“I don’t know.” Finally he lifts his eyes to meet mine. They’re bloodshot, as if he’d been drinking all day. “I don’t know.”

My heart sinks because he’s being honest. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even have an excuse.

Don’t I deserve a why?

 **********

 His breathing is shallow, but steady. When he sleeps, I catch glimpses of the boy he used to be. When he sleeps, I ignore the voice of insecurity within, whispering to me that it’s the only time peace reigns on his face.

He’s driven. He’s a caretaker. A fixer. He spends so much time making life easier for everyone around him that he never takes a moment for himself. He’s giving. He’ll give so much of himself he might fade away.

The stress never eases. His mother is a basket-case. His girlfriend is a head-case. His co-workers are inept. His 401K statements give him heartburn. No matter how fast or how long he runs, he can’t escape the slight paunch Mother Nature gifted him with at some point in his thirty-eighth year.

In his sleep, he’s transparent. The relief he craves is trapped in REM sleep cycles. No nagging. No deadlines. No reminders of the brutal truths of middle-age. No stupid fights about whose turn it is to make dinner.

The tiny creases between his eyebrows aren’t so deep. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are barely visible. His jaw is relaxed.

I tell myself it’s something to treasure, those moments when he is at his most serene, his most unaffected. I am lost in the beauty of his too-long lashes resting on his cheeks. I memorize the profile of a nose broken by an errant foul ball once upon a time in his youth. I marvel at the job the doctors did at resetting it. If he’s deep enough asleep, I can run my finger over the contours of his lips, eliciting a brief smile.

But I often wonder why he’s never so contented when he’s awake … with me.

 **********

 “Aliens are taking over the world. Who has the better chance of saving us? Superman or Spiderman?”

“Superman. Definitely Superman.”

“Why?”

“He can fly. He can turn back time and change history if the mean aliens kill us.”

“But what’s in it for him?”

“He did it for Lois.”

“He loved Lois.”

“I’m sure he has a respectable amount of affection for the rest of us.”

He shifts in place, water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub. Warm, bubbly sanctuary is found in his arms. He doesn’t even fret over the knowledge he will emerge from our shared soak smelling like a field of lilies-of-the-valley. Not many men will tolerate such indignity.

The demands of his work are becoming more intrusive and finding time for one another is becoming more and more of a chore. Big projects with important deadlines arise too often, but I realize I’m lucky. This is a man who will drop by just to share a bubble before he must go home and work some more.

He wraps his arms around me and begins to do things to my body that have nothing to do with personal hygiene. “You’re my Lois,” he whispers in my ear as his hands dip lower. “I’ll let the aliens eat me first. Maybe then they’ll be too full to eat you.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I’m not Superman. But if I ever learn how to fly, I’ll turn back the hands of time just so I can save you.”

“My hero.”

**********

He sits in the darkened corner, distorted shadows doing their best to deny the blood dripping from the gashes in his arms.

I should be afraid, but I’m too preoccupied with the blood, the way his hands shake though his voice is a steady as I’ve ever heard it. “Look,” he says, reaching to wipe away tears I don’t realize are falling. “I cut myself, and you bleed.”

“I love you,” I whisper as I take the knife from his hand and slide it out of reach. “Even when I hate you, I still love you.”

“You should go. You’re not obligated to me now. We’re not us anymore. There is no us.” He sighs and leans his head against the back of the chair. I stare at the way the blood splatters when the droplets hit the floor.

I should go. I’m an expert player in this game. He hurts himself to hurt me. It’s manipulative. It’s pathetic. It works.

“Why do we always end up here?” I ask. I reach for his discarded shirt and press the crumpled cotton to his arm, ignoring the coppery smell of blood I loathe so much. “Why do we put so much energy into tearing each other to shreds?”

“It’s what we do. It’s what we are.” The answer comes too easily for him, too fast. “Oil and water? That’s too amateur for us. We're kerosene and wood. We douse everything we love and watch it burn because we can’t figure out a better way. It’s just what we do.  Love is hurt and hurt is love. Our wires are crossed. We don’t know how to make love work.”

He’s right. We aren’t able to fight the inevitability of our own destruction. We can only light the pyre and marvel at the flames as they consume every ounce of our souls.

 **********

 Sunlight glints off the diamond. The ring is foreign on my finger. My ears were pierced when I was twelve. The holes had grown completely shut by the time I was thirteen. I’m not a jewelry person.

The ring was his mother’s. It matters to him. It matters to me because he wants me to wear it.

I’ll learn to be a jewelry person.

“What do we do now?” I ask, still staring at the ring. It’s tight. Too small. It’ll have to be re-sized. I wish it was like Cinderella’s slipper – a perfect fit. I have tiny hands, but fat fingers. His mother didn’t suffer from chubby knuckle syndrome.

“Beats me.” He shrugs and kisses my forehead. “We pick out china patterns. Figure out where we go for the honeymoon. Buy a new couch.”

“I want a red couch,” I blurt out.

He wrinkles his nose. “Red? Are you serious?”

“I always wanted a red couch.”

“Why?”

“It’s bold.”

“You’re not bold.”

My lower lip comes out. “I can be bold.”

“Where will we put a red couch?”

“In our living room.”

“Not my living room.”

“Ours,” I say, bristling. “Not just yours.”

“Not just yours, either.” He pulls away slightly, and the vein in his forehead that signals he thinks I’m being a pain in his ass comes out of hibernation.

Engaged for roughly four minutes, and already a war is brewing.

 **********

 “Do you love her?” I ask.

“God, no.” His vehemence should be comforting. It’s not. Now, I not only feel sorry for myself, I feel sorry for her. I wonder if she’s aware of how insignificant she is to him.

“Do you love me?”

“You know I do.” The lie is whispered, and he winces at the weakness of his retort.

“You show it so well.”   

He’s hunkered down on the asphalt, reminding me of stereotype-riddled Western films of the fifties and sixties. He’s the native warrior, ear pressed to the ground, listening for some sign of the approaching Calvary.

In reality, he’s wallowing in a garbage strewn gutter, one arm thrust down through a grime-coated grate, futilely grasping for the diamond engagement ring I’d wrenched off and hurled through the air just moments before.

Satisfaction blooms within when I note his oil-coated knees, and the French fry stuck to his elbow.

He hazards a glance over his shoulder at yet another co-worker who’d found reason to wander outside under the pretense of a smoke, a breath of fresh air, a retrieval mission to the car. One by one they appear, trying hard not to stare at the spectacle of a relationship going up in flames.

“I’ll probably lose my job for this,” he mutters. Worried eyes catch the appearance of his supervisor, who glares at us with disgust.

I glance at my watch and sigh. “I’ll start caring after I get over the humiliation of telling my doctor I need to be tested for STDs.”

“Touché.” He returns focus to his search and recovery mission and I resist the urge to kick him in his unprotected face.

 **********

“Get out, get out, get out!” I cry, dancing a jig in front of the bathroom door. He’s been locked in for fifteen minutes. I’m struggling with the throb of a full bladder, and trying to comprehend the pregnancy test instructions.

“I’m out, already.” He emerges from the bathroom, disheveled and growling. Not a morning person, this man. Not awake enough to understand the desperation of a woman who must pee and must know if she’s finally carrying his baby.

He zeroes in on the box lying on the foot of the bed and bleary eyes become bright and focused. He nearly shoves me into the bathroom and presses an ear to the door, ignoring my pleas for privacy. I suffer from a shy bladder. It doesn’t care if a potential father-to-be is eager for an answer.

Within minutes, he’s enveloping me in his arms as I sob over the negative result. Only three months into the attempt and I’m already convinced it won’t happen.

My fertility doesn’t concern me. Time is my worry. Time for things to go wrong. Time for him to change his mind. Time for me to realize I’ve no right to inflict myself on an innocent child.

I need a positive result. I need the ties that bind. I need the point of no turning back.

But it’s not happening.

I’m going to lose him.

**********

“Where do we go from here?” he asks.

I stare at him, flummoxed. “We? There is no we. You’ll go back into work. Deal with the fallout over a sex romp with the steno pool masquerading as a lunch break. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I can’t stay here.”

He takes a step forward. The first signs of panic take flight across his features. “We can work this out.”

Tears spring into my eyes, but they don’t fall. Instead, I laugh. At length. I can’t say why his words strike me as funny, but I can’t curb the hysterics.

He doesn’t join in.

“Work out what?” I draw myself up to full height, something that doesn’t work for a 5’3” woman. The words I’ve never been strong enough to say finally come to me, and they are finally spoken. “I’m done. We’re done. Enough is enough.”

 **********

 He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not.

The debate is endless. Every day, I wonder. The ceiling fan overhead relentlessly spins and my mind keeps the rhythm.

He’ll cheat on me again, he’ll never cheat on me again.

He’s asleep beside me. I’m unable to find the same level of relaxation.

Four months into our relationship he came to me, confessing an affair with a woman he hated. He found her insipid, but he found his way into her bed anyway. I forgave him.

I let him blame me because I blamed myself. Couldn’t show my feelings. Couldn’t open my heart. Couldn’t make him see he meant the world to me. Expected him to assume all of the above.

He didn’t.

I paid the consequences for my emotional ineptitude.

He wants to be with me, he wants to be with me because nobody else is available.

We talked. We cried. We talked some more. He begged for forgiveness. He fell to his knees. He made love to me.

He loves me, he loves me not.

I forgive him. But next time I won’t be so forgiving.

History has proven there will always be a next time.

 **********

 “I love you.”

His eyes shine. Then he registers the pause. Clear blue eyes cloud with the perceived slight.

“I love you, too.”

Defeated, he rises to his feet and turns his back on me. “Will you ever be able to say that without thinking it through first?”

I don’t reply because I don’t think he’ll like the answer.

 **********

Home is where the heart is. Until it’s been torn out of your chest and tossed aside. Then home is another reminder of the gaping hole he’s left behind.

I sit on the couch, chin to knees, arms embracing shins. I stare at a blank television set because I can’t think of anything better to do.

The banging on the door has finally ceased. The muffled pleas and demands are no more. The departing roar of his car’s engine should elicit a sigh of relief, but I’m too busy trying to force myself not to run after him, begging him to come back.

Home doesn’t feel like home without him. Home has been reduced to four walls. An empty shell providing shelter for an empty shell of a person. An empty shell of a person who almost believed love conquered all. Almost.

Never could completely buy into the lie. I tried. I failed.

The tears no longer fall. Nobody around to scream at. Nobody to welcome into my arms. There is only me. There is no home here anymore.

 **********

We had a moment.

I remember it. A moment of bliss. Contentment. Happiness. Love. Adoration. Completion.

An autumn day on an empty beach. A blood-red sun setting over the bay. Ribbons of pinks, purples, and golds marred only by the silhouette of a pelican drifting aimlessly overhead. Salty breezes, crisp and energizing.

The sand was cold. We wrapped ourselves in sweaters and blankets, reveling in our shared body heat.

His lips were cold when they brushed my temple, but I didn’t mind. The chill of the evening sea air dissipated as he tightened his arms around me.

A moment of perfection. A moment when I didn’t doubt his love. A moment when he was at peace at my side.

There was a moment. No matter how fleeting it was, we still had our moment.

 **********

 If this were a romance novel, we’d get our happily ever after, I muse as I poke my head out from under my comforter and unwillingly greet the start of a new day. Alone.

If this were a romance novel, it would all be a misunderstanding. I check my muted cell-phone and delete the missed calls and unplayed voicemails.

If this were a romance novel, we’d find a way back to one another. We’d find healing. Renewed commitment. Love would overcome all else.

But this isn’t a romance novel. There is no hero to save the day. No gallant knight on a white steed to sweep me off my feet and make me forget my pain.

There is only him.

There is only me.

And all that remains is the broken shards of two hearts never meant to beat as one.

FIN

I've read a few blogs in the last month or so that have lists of reasons why NaNoWriMo gives false hope to writers. Why it leads to unrealistic expectations of publication. Why it doesn't accomplish much. Blah blah blah.

Well, I'm not going to add to that list. So if you're looking for my usual complaints about life, you're going to be disappointed.

First of all, I can't see why NaNo promotes an unhealthy assumption that participating writers will soon be published. I mean, the very nature of NaNo seems, to me, to be an opportunity to throw all the stress and drama of writing for publication out the window.

As far as I can see, NaNo is about writing for the sake of writing. Screw the rules. Screw publishing trends. Just write a story you want to write. Don't look back. Open your mind and let the words flow.

What a liberating month this has turned out to be!

I am quite capable of producing large chunks of story in a short amount of time. I've done it plenty. Thing is, once I started really aiming for the published author title, my writing changed.

I started to fret about rules. About showing and not telling. About adverb tallies. About my annoying abuse of the words 'apparently' and 'just'.

I worried about passive sentences. I lost sleep over lack of CONFLICT, CONFLICT, CONFLICT. I became obsessed with queries and synopsiseseseses.

All that mental clutter slows a writer gal down, you know? I forgot what it was to just let story flow.

This month, I'm remembering it once again. Nice to run into you again, Mr. Free Association! I missed you.

I'm not setting any records for writing my NaNo story. Sometime tonight, I need to try to break the 25,000 word mark. I'm a wee bit ahead of the daily minimum writing goals, but that's it.

Yet, last night, I had the most AWESOME moment of writing zen. Here's the setup:

I'd gone to my usual writing haunt on my day off to get the word count a bit higher. For whatever reason, I wasn't feeling it. The music wasn't great. The table I was at kinda sucked. People were talking too loud about really stupid things.

I gave up after a couple hundred words. Left the coffee joint. Went to Marshall's in search of the ever elusive dirt cheap winter jacket that I don't think I'll ever find.

A little later that night, I got my second wind and opened up the NaNo document. Started exploring the still-unnamed town the action is set in. As I was writing, things started to click. Synapses started to fire.

And then it happened. The moment of zen.

Because as I was throwing down what had started out as an innocent conversation between the heroine, Rebecca, and a newly created townie, I was hit by a literary bolt of lightning.

This new character wasn't just a walk on role. This particular location they met in wasn't just a random quirky business in a quirky little town.

In a nanosecond(ha ha. Get it? NaNo second?) the entire story changed. In the blink of an eye, my entire story veered off course and found a new path.

I think I actually squeed out loud. I'd never uttered a verbal squee before. It was fun.

And then the words couldn't come out fast enough. What a turnaround from my earlier frustrations of the morning writing session.

I'm so jazzed about this new twist. It's something I never, ever considered. It's something that will change every assumption I've had about the future of my hero and heroine.

But I don't care. Because it ROCKS. At least, it does in my brain.

I don't think any amount of outlining would have dug up this particular change. I'm not sure, if I was being careful and grammatical and not passive, if I'd have thought of doing this.

I rather enjoy this feeling of being completely in the dark about how this story will end. And I'm totally happy to have taken the opportunity to discover a brand new story in the time span of a month. I can't wait until the 30th, because I desperately want to find out how this story ends!

So, long story short, to all those who think that NaNo isn't a good thing, thpppppt on you. Maybe this story will be published someday. Maybe not. The only thing that matters to me is that I had the opportunity to write it. Quit pooping on an awesome opportunity to throw caution to the wind and jus

I've been whining a lot about social media overload lately. But when not whining, I've been trying to figure out how to be more productive in my social media appearances. Follow Fridays and Writer Wednesdays don't really seem like big time suckers, but I feel like they have become a space sucker.

Trying to keep track of people who really do deserve mentions is time consuming. Thanking everyone is time consuming. Yes, I know that sounds HUGELY ungrateful. I really do appreciate people who take a moment to give me a shout out. Seriously, thank you to everyone who has ever name dropped for me. I hope to have given equal reciprocation.

My problem isn't with the practice itself. It's with what it has become en masse. I tend not to read Twitter closely on Fridays because frankly, it's just an endless stream of account name listings from everyone else on my list.

Visual clutter, ya know?

And really, even though I am NOT a fan of that new activity tab on Twitter, it makes the practice even more redundant.

I've had a few people ask me for my Twitter account name, and I've said, "Oh, don't bother. I promote and I hashtag like mad. It'll just annoy you."

I think that makes for a rather boring Twitter account.

So, I quit. I simply must make my time more productive, in the writing sense.  I hope that doesn't sound snubbish to anyone. It's only a self-preservation thing.

Now, I don't intend to totally ignore the people who have kindly recommended me on a weekly basis. What I shall do is this: Compile a Twitter list of people I would recommend to others. On Wednesdays and Fridays, I'm simply going to tweet once. One link to my list, with appropriate hashtags. And those of you who are the lovely chronic recommenders, please know that while I probably won't be sending out ten thank you tweets, you will definitely be on that list of awesomeness.

This is my gift to you, my Twittering peeps. I give you ... one less giant digital burp of recommendation clutter.