Party At Gena’s!!!!!

Go See Why!    Woohoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Reminder:  I won’t be picking a winner until Sunday, so the Apex Subscription Drive continues!  It really is the best science fiction and horror short story publication, IMO, so it’s worth the 20 bucks.  Plus, you can win one of my cool Snarky items!  See post below for details.

APEX SUBSCRIPTION DRIVE & PRIZE!!

Fun stuff this week!!!  This post will stay up a couple of days and I’ll do the drawing on Sunday.

Write Snark readers know I just LOVE Apex Digest!  Jason and I shared space as writers in a horror magazine a couple of years ago and stayed in touch since.  He’s a fantastic editor and this magazine never fails to give me a shiver or two.  So if you like your science fiction on the dark side, give them a chance.

I want to keep loving it, so I’m offering my own incentive to sweeten the pot.

If you take out a subscription, comment here and you will be automatically entered to win one of these three prizes.  I’ll do a random drawing, pick one winner (two if I’m feeling particularly generous and we have a great turnout!) confirm the purchase with Jason and then you get to pick which snarky item you like best.  I’ll ship directly to you. (Clicking on the image pulls it up large for you.)

The Here Kitty Kitty apron which reads “All it takes is time, drive and maybe… a small blood sacrifice.”  I find the idea of wearing this while cooking pretty damned amusing myself. <g>  Here’s how it looks on.  If you’re tall.  And a guy.

Or

It Was Just Getting Bloody!  dark T. (This comes in several nice, dark colors.)  I wore this shirt into the hospital for surgery recently.  Cracked up those who got it– I feel sorry for those who didn’t.

Or

Could Be Worse T.  I wear this shirt all the time.  My favorite place is my son’s school. <g>

Here’s Apex’s Blurb:

Okay, we’re going to come right out and say it. The magazine needs more subscribers. Probably doesn’t come as any shock, as this happens every year.

So we’re going to do an old-fashioned subscription drive.

The reality of the situation is that we need 150 new subscribers (or roughly $3000), or we’re looking at a hiatus until I have enough disposable income to push out another issue. We use the term “hiatus” because there won’t be any mercy killings going on around here. We love the damn magazine too much to let it go (or possibly too stubborn), but the hiatus could be an extended one.

–How can you help?
–By taking out a subscription! Or buying magazines from our store!

Subscriptions are a measly $20 for 4 issues in the US. $24 for Canada/Mexico. $34 for the rest of the world.

We’ve re-initiated the APEX FOR LIFE subscription option that gives you Apex until you die. This goes for $100.

If you’re interested in the magazine, but want to check it out before taking out a subscription, then take a look through our ample back catalog.

Or, heck, if you’re wanting to show your support but not necessarily want a subscription, check out our ample back catalog.

Every person taking out APEX FOR LIFE subscriptions will be entered to win the following prizes:
1) ARC copy of Broken on the Wheel of Sexby Jack Ketchum (Overlook Connection)
2) Signed limited copy of Orpheus and the Pearlby Kim Paffenroth (Magus Press)
3) Signed copy of Homebody by Orson Scott Card
4) Limited signed copy of When Dark Descendsby Charles L. Grand & Thomas F. Monteleone (Borderlands Press)
5) Hardcover copies ofGratia Placenti and Aegri Somniaedited by Gill Ainsworth and Jason Sizemore

Furthermore, every person taking out a lifetime subscription will receive a TPB copy of either Unwelcome Bodies or The Next Fix.

Get your own subscription here!

Conference Snippets… That Grew…

Thought I’d share some conference seeds, but didn’t want to leave anyone out, so they sprouted.  There is some fun info in here, so read at your leisure.

Pictures will come later!  In a post with less words. I was forced to use one of those disposable cameras–so cross your fingers and hope some of the images came out.  I’m a writer, not a photographer.  Some of you remember the wild turkey shots, yes?  Remember the casual suggestions I stick to writing???  I have such lovely, honest readers here.

First night at the hotel in Midwest City, we had one of those freak, Oklahoma storms that come out of nowhere.  Well, for those of us who don’t always pay close attention to the news.  Julia Mozingo did tell me that she’d heard Lubbock would be visiting us that evening in the form of wind carried dirt.  Lubbock is over 300 miles southwest.  In Texas.

Instead of dirt, we had huge hail and tornado sirens that sent everyone running into the storm shelter.  I couldn’t help but wonder what our out of town guests thought.  <g>

JA Jance was our keynote and she did talk about explaining the hail damage to the car rental place.  Ouch.  Her speech was wonderful, funny and inspiring.  Have to say, the keynote is usually my favorite part of the conference. She has a blog and if it is half as entertaining as her speech, I’ll be following it.

I attended two workshops by A.C. Crispin.  She talked about the popularity of urban fantasy but warned new writers about writing to trends.  Not necessarily in reference to UF, no, she was talking about all recent trends and how long it can take to write the book, get an agent, go through the publishing process…. the trends could be over by then.  Her advice is excellent.  Write what you love. 

I am hoping UF takes on its own powerful genre identity and stays around a long, long time. ;) 

I highly recommend any author searching for an agent to first check out A. C. Crispin’s Writer Beware site on scam artists.

I walked up and introduced myself to Jason Pinter.  He writes for Mira (like Rachel!) and I’ve followed his blog for a little while.  Unfortunately, I tend to cross my arms over my name tag, so he didn’t know who I was until right before he had to run off.   He then recognized my name from Rachel’s blog.  I told him I wasn’t number one, but number two.  (heh heh)  I bought The Mark and The Guilty and look forward to reading them very much.

Selina McLemore, an editor from Grand Central Publishing, sat with us during the banquet.  She is especially interested in fiction and non-fiction that resonates with the Latino community in the United States and also looks for romance, women’s fiction and narrative non-fiction.   I enjoyed meeting her.  She’s very personable, smiles often and is truly excited about her work.  She also listened to a couple of stories about me from MY MOTHER.  LOL! 

(My father attended the conference–his first– and my mother joined us for the banquet.  She looked stunning in her white dress and seemed to really enjoy herself.  It was lovely having her there, but I kept thinking she would have really enjoyed coming when I was entering the contests and collecting those awards myself. <g> )

The best thing about the Oklahoma Writer’s Federation conference is spending time with my close friends Sarah Basore, Carol Shenold, Kathy Moad (currently building a new site), Lou Mansfied and Deborah Bouziden. I missed Christy Jenkins something awful! 

I also like touching base with writers I only see once a year.  I’m terrible with names at times, but I know the smiles and I get a kick out of all the cheering and support given to those who place in the Saturday night contests. 

I didn’t enter them the last couple of years, but I feel they are a wonderful, wonderful thing for Oklahoma writers.  I honed my craft in those contests, spending year after year working harder to get to first places.  It’s a great source of feedback and it’s nice for new writers to get the positive vibes from the support when otherwise they might be swimming in rejections. 

I do think there should be a bit of caution there and I don’t want to bring a positive post down, but feel it’s necessary to warn new writers not to let that positive feedback sustain you.  It’s easy to fall into the habit of writing for the contests and not put your hard work toward publishing. 

I also got to spend time with writers Maria Hooley and Kathleen Redwine.  Maria and I have been friends for years and we try to touch base at the conference.  She’s a fantastic writer who also happened to get up quite a few times to accept awards.  Kathleen is a new member of OKRWA and just a fascinating and gorgeous woman! 

So, while I enjoyed the conference, I’m always so happy to get home.  I didn’t stay and celebrate with the winners last night.  My father and I were both pretty wiped, so my parents gave me a ride home.  (We had one vehicle in the shop, so the hubby gave me a ride up Thursday.)

I’m one of those oddly introverted people who does well at conferences for a few days, then needs to scurry off to recuperate.   But my imagination never fails to find inspiration in something there.  I came home with several ideas I can’t wait to explore. 

And okay, okay.  Yes.  It was VERY fun telling people I’d signed with an agent.   I worried I might say it too often, but then remembered how long I’ve been waiting to share that kind of news.  <g>

Oh I almost forgot–yes, I know this is long– but I did attend an interesting workshop about marketing yourself from home.  Dan Poynter  created the workshop especially for introverts. You might want to check out his site and sign up for the newsletter.  Some of his suggestions were incredibly simple, yet they’d escaped me.  I picked up valuable ideas on promotion.

He shared a story about Johnny Carson that had me smiling.  Carson as an introvert might surprise a lot of people, but it made sense to me.  I tend to come off as highly extroverted at writer’s meetings and conferences because I’m talkative (too much when the nerves set in!) and I gather up the nerve to introduce myself to strangers. (Remember Pinter?)  I do okay in crowds and don’t stare at my feet as Poynter said introverts are prone to do.  I find people too interesting for that.  

I do plan to market my books heavily and in person as much as possible, but I will always be more comfortable here, curled up in a chair with my laptop.  Diving into worlds of my own making. 

I’m a writer because I love to write. :) 

Conference Weekend

I’m headed to the OWFI conference tomorrow.  It’s going to feel weird going, because I truly DON’T have a business reason to go.  I’m no longer looking for an agent and I don’t yet have a book to publicize. 

At least that’s what I was thinking.  At first.

Nah.  A writer can always learn more.  You never know when something will spark that next great idea.  Plus, it’s always great fun to hang out with other writers and some very good friends of mine will be there.  JA Jance is the keynote speaker and there’s a pretty impressive list of agents, editors and authors ready to share marketing info.

Wonder if I’ll pick up more without the pressure?

Today, I’m listening to OK Computer by Radiohead.  Yeah, I’m one of the millions who fell hard for that CD.  In fact, I worried for a little while that my kids would have hearing issues after listening to me belt out this puppy in the car.  Over and over. 

And no matter which live version you watch on Youtube, Jonny Greenwood is always so damned focused. (Lead guitar with longish black hair.)

I like that.

New Book to Check Out!

Jenna Black has a book out today!  Hungers of the Heart (Link takes you to B&N)

I’m new to her work and I believe this is a part of a series.  I’ve also heard WONDERFUL things about her writing, so I plan to start from the beginning and buy up to this one now. <g>

Gotta do my part to spread the word for fellow agency mates.  (Jenna is also a client of Miriam Kriss!)

Here’s the blurb.

Drake is a Killer  vampire.

Unlike the Guardians of the Night, Drake feeds on human blood, choosing victims who deserve to die.  But still he works with the Guardians to protect those humans who yet have some good in them. 

When Gabriel, the leader of the Baltimore Guardians, mysteriously disappears, Drake finds himself in charge of a small band of inexperienced fledgling vampires.  When a delegation of European Killers arrives in Baltimore  looking for Gabriel, Drake must call on all the savagery of his sordid past to keep the Guardians in line—and to protect them from the ruthless Killers.

Forced to confront a past he has tried so hard to outrun, Drake risks losing his humanity. His only hope is Faith, the French Seigneur’s concubine, who desperately needs his help to rescue her human sister from the Seigneur’s clutches.  Then someone begins killing the members of the European vampire delegation, and Drake is the only suspect. Will Drake be saved by love, or will he become a Killer without a conscience?
 

 

Congratulations Jana!!

My sister ran in the Memorial Marathon yesterday.  It was her first marathon–she did the half, which is 13 miles and her stats were amazing. 

1st marathon and she came in 16 out of 397 in her division.  Woohoo!!!!! 

I’m so proud of her! 

We celebrated last night.  Poor thing was hobbling around my house, but as always she made me laugh so much, my tummy hurts today. 

Been Weird Lately

Rinda has been strangely moody and prone to suffering from broken records playing in her head.

My family is having fun with it.  They bring up obnoxious songs on purpose.  (Examples:  Who Let the Dogs Out, Bicycle by Queen, etc.  I’ve been waiting for Muskrat Love and someone is gonna die…)

Mostly?  The song has been Van Halen’s Running with the Devil.  Because I’ve been reading this.

 Working for the Devil by Lilith Saintcrow.

I’m really enjoying the book.  So much, I visited her blog and what song does she have playing on the first post I come to?  A Sesame Street song about Singing.  Here’s check it out for yourself. <WG>

Then, I visit Heather’s Weekend Zen and Let Your Love Flow was belted out loud throughout my house yesterday.

Until I picked up Lilith’s book and Van Halen kicked the crap out of The Bellamy Brothers.

I’ve been updating the gallery page and no one is safe.  Not even my cat.

Plot Board and Research Find!

I pulled out the white board.  While I’m waiting to hear back on DOTT and BOAA, I’ve been outlining an idea for another series.  Funny enough, the characters in this one are coming from BOAA.  I haven’t yet written the scene, but they showed up in my imagination with a supernatural force-snerk-but seriously, I can see them so clearly.

This is one of the most interesting and exciting things about writing.  That spark of something that raises the hair on your arms and forms a knot in your chest.   You know you’re onto something and instinct tells you that something is really, really good.

These characters will show up briefly in BOAA, but they are too alive to just let go after that.  I knew instantly they needed their own book or even books.  So, they’ve been exploring my mind while I take notes on them.  Now, it’s time for the board.  I normally don’t pull it out until I’ve written through chapter three.  Gonna try it differently this time and see what happens. 

Oh!  I realize a lot of you read my attempt to get a “filtering heavy emotion from real life into your writing” post going and grew concerned.  Yes, some things made me pretty angry this past week or so–but strong emotion is good for a person–especially a writer.  I ended up with a killer fight scene. <g>  Though the post had plenty of time to make the rounds, I went ahead and deleted it.  I’m really good.  Like I said, when life hands you stress, use it.  Put it on paper. 

I also took a break this week and wandered around B&N and lookie what I found!

The Element Encyclopedia of the Psychic World.  In a bargain bin of all places.  I can’t wait to dive into it!

 

Nadia’s Bench

Today feels like a day for sharing.  I wrote this story years ago and in fact, my style has changed considerably over the years.  It’s certainly not my best work.

But this little story won my first ever first place award in 2001.  It beat eighty other short, short stories and the look of shock is forever caught on film because a friend of mine, (Kathy!), knew about the win ahead of time and planted her daughter.

I thought you might enjoy seeing the transition of style.  For an idea of the change, read a bit of rough from my current WIP here.

  

Nadia’s Bench

 

            The rising sun cast a yellow and orange haze over the morning as Nadia made her way to the little stone bench.  The air, dry and cold, nipped at the exposed skin of her face and hands and she wished she could turn back for the new wool gloves she’d forgotten. She was running late today and if she didn’t hurry, that silly man Frederik would get there first.

             She’d been first fourteen days in a row.  It was a new record.  Of course, yesterday Frederik had not come at all.

             Hurrying for her was walking a little fast for most.  With every day it grew closer to winter, the chill crept deeper into her bones.  Some days they felt hollow, like the flaky pastry shells her papa had once made in his bakery only without the rich, creme filling to keep them sturdy.  It seemed to her they might crumble with one hard fall.     

            She salty sea air blew strong through the narrow streets, lifting the slightly frayed ends of her coat.  She could get a new one, but this one had shared many winters with her and it suited her fine.  She loved the way it fit to her body, snug and comfortably familiar.  So many things about her life, her town, were no longer  familiar. 

            Nadia carefully kept her face averted as she passed the gift shop that had once been her family’s bakery. Her father had opened it three years before her birth and it had stayed open for sixty-seven years.  Her youngest brother, Misha , had finally closed its doors twelve years before.  It still pained her to walk by and not see a member of the Ivanov family smiling behind the counter.  She herself had worked that counter for most of her eighty-two years.  All the important moments in her life had occurred in that store.  Friends made, birthdays celebrated, a wedding reception here and there.

             It was the place where she’d met the two loves of her life. 

            Turning the corner, she saw that Frederik had beaten her. 

            The bench was not very wide.  There was not anything special about it, other than it offered a view of the boats coming into the  harbor and was one of the last places in town with a stretch of original cobblestone street.  It was a familiar place, having been there for as long as she could remember. She supposed that’s why she liked it.

            Too bad Frederik liked it, too.

             Silly, old man, she thought with a scowl.  Dressed as always with his wool vest, badly knotted tie and ridiculous hat–a beret, he called it.  He annoyed her like no one.  He stole her bench, picked at her and generally make her life as miserable as possible.  He liked nothing better than to ruin a perfectly good day for her.

            If she were in an honest sort of mood, she’d have to admit, she loved to do nothing better than ruin the day for him as well.

            Placing her hands on now ample hips, she announced, “Today you have to share.”

            “Why should I?” he answered.  “There’s a perfectly good bench over there.  No one has taken it yet.”

            “You know good and well, Frederik Larsen, that you’re resting your bony butt on my bench.”                                          

            He lifted one snowy white eyebrow before lifting one buttock to glance beneath it.  “Don’t see Nadia’s Bench written on it anywhere.”

            Fuming, she plopped her hips down and deliberately crunched him to one end of the bench.  She outweighed him and those hips, though they’d once caused her great anguish, had a useful purpose now.  Leaving him barely enough space to balance on the end, she proceeded to ignore him.  She opened the brown paper bag she’d brought and lifted out the kartoshka she’d baked the day before.  She noticed his sidelong glance at her pastry and swallowed the urge to offer him the other one in her bag.  The man, so thin and frail, looked like one strong wind could pick him up and carry him away.

            An image of him as a young man flashed into her head.  Though always short, he’d once been sturdy and tough.  She could easily remember his days as the neighborhood bully, making up for his lack of height with solid punches and ominous threats.

             She’d known then he was a…she searched her mind for the right word and thought of one her great-granddaughter had taught her.  Butthead.  Yes, it was a good word.  Butthead.

            Paper crackled as Frederik opened his own bag.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the name on the package and forgot all about her decision to ignore him. 

            “Hmph.  I always knew you were stupid, but eating pastry from Finster’s proves it.”

            “I’ve been eating their pastries for over fifty years.  Hasn’t hurt me yet.”

            “They poison slowly, everyone with brains know this.”

            He shrugged.  “So I die happy.  There are worse things.”

            Disgusted, she bit into her kartoshka, smug in the knowledge her pastry was surely better.  Her father and Hobart Finster had once been partners in the business until a falling out around the time she’d been starting school.  She remembered the loud arguments and the day Finster had moved three doors down and opened his own bakery.   Her father and his once best friend had never spoken again.  No one who ate at the Ivanov’s ever set foot in Finster’s, it was an unspoken rule.  Frederik had once eaten at Ivanov’s every day before going to his job unloading freighters in the harbor.

            Frowning, she looked away from him and swallowed the heavy bite of pastry stuck in her throat.  When she felt composed once again, she faced forward and slowly finished her breakfast. 

            Neither spoke for the next couple of hours.  Nadia shifted on the hard bench a couple of times as the frigid October wind seemed to freeze the stone from underneath, making the cold sneak up to silently battle the warmth from her body.

            She wondered how many years she and Frederik had fought over this bench.  Ten?  Fifteen?  It hadn’t been that long since she’d know to the day,  but while the older memories remained strong, the newer ones sometimes blurred and tangled together like knotted yarn.  Shaking her head, she felt a flurry of fear trickle into her throat and she quickly sought a way to divert it. 

            “So, Frederik, I suppose yesterday, you were tired and had to stay in bed.”

            Instead of his usual instant retort, he was silent for several seconds.  She turned to look at him and found him gazing out over the harbor. “I was tired, but I didn’t stay home.  I was at the hospital.”

            Deep inside, something clenched.  She ignored it and held her breath, waiting for him to go on.

            “Alexandra called me to the hospital to say goodbye to Eduard.  He passed in the afternoon.”

            Though the clenching eased, another ache entered her chest.  Eduard had been the last of Finster’s sons.  Since her last brother has died two years before, that left just her and Frederik.  They were the last of their generation left.

            She knew Frederik ’s thought matched hers.  It was a sobering realization.  To be the only two left.

            Nadia eyed Frederik’s thin body and sighed.  She handed him the paper bag with her last pastry.  “You’re too skinny,” she said by way of explanation.

            Frederik didn’t reply but took the bag with a smile.  It was the first he’d directed her way since the day of his return from World War II in 1944.  Disconcerted, she glared at him and turned back to the harbor. 

            Inside, though, inside something funny happened.  A small spot, so long hollow and cold, broke from her heart and dissolved.  Taking a deep breath, she marveled over the realization that the spot had still been there at all.  She had not known it, thought it long swallowed by the many other moments in her life.  The sad day of her marriage to Motka, the day she’d understood that Motka was indeed a gift from God, as his name should have told her, that he loved her and she loved him in a deep and spiritual way she’d never expected, the births of her three children, Tanya, Oleg  and little Misha.  The births of her many grandchildren.  So many moments in time captured in spots on her heart she hadn’t realized the Frederik spot still remained.

            A particularly strong autumn wind whistled past and Frederik startled her when he suddenly stood.  She thought he was leaving and had to swallow an unexpected urge to ask him to stay.  But he did not leave.  Instead, he laughed and began to dance in a pile of dried leaves by the bench.  It was barely a dance, more of a shuffle.

            “What are you doing?  You are a silly, silly man, Frederik Larsen.  Sit down before you have a heart attack.”

            Chuckling, he stopped and bent over to grab handfuls of crumpled dried leaves.  He rolled them in his hands before lifting them to the sky.  He let the wind pick them up and both he and Nadia watched as they swirled into the wind, pieces soaring out over the water.

            “We are like these pieces of leaves, Nadia.  So many experiences, so many memories.  Some from so long ago, they’ve grown like these leaves, thin and papery.  Some are strong and do well to warm our hearts when the world grows cold.” He smiled.  “When it is our time, our spirits will break free and soar over the water like this.”

            She watched him stand there, a silly, little man with his beret and badly knotted tie.  She knew how difficult knotting that tie had to be with his fingers, long curled from arthritis.  She knew those fingers were cold like hers and there he stood as tall as was possible for him, proud and smiling and uttering nonsense. 

            All of the sudden, she didn’t feel so cold.

            Laughing, she moved over a bit to give him more room and patted the bench.  “Sit Frederik and tell me a joke.”

            The next morning Frederik once again beat her to the bench. She brought him fresh baked karavay bread.  He gifted her with another smile.   

            She knew then that he had forgiven her.

            For weeks they met at the beach and talked.  Everyday she brought him something she’d baked the day before.  Some mornings he arrived with a flower for her.

            One morning Frederik was not at the bench.  She waited, watching the ships moving in and out of the harbor.  Sometime that morning, she knew in her heart he wouldn’t be coming.  She sat still on the hard, little bench and thought back to the day he’d returned from the war, tired and hurt, yet so happy to see her.  She remembered the stark pain on his face when she told him she’d given in to her father’s demands that she marry Motka, the prosperous Russian boy he preferred over her choice of a poor Danish harbor worker.  He’d been gone to war so long.  She’d not heard from him in over a year and had not even known if he was still alive.  She hurled one excuse after another but the truth had been she’d been weak under her family’s constant demands.  She’d been lonely and had wanted to get started on her family and hadn’t known if Frederik would come back for her.  As she’d stood on the street in front of her father’s bakery and watched a young man’s heart break, a piece of her heart had shriveled.  Unable to look him in the eye, she’d turned from him, knowing he would always be her love. 

            A soft winter breeze blew across her face, touching the tears she hadn’t realized were falling.  Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped her face and slowly stood.  She walked until she found a pile of dried leaves and stopped to dance.  Lifting a handful of crushed leaves, she let the wind carry them out over the water and she smiled.

                                                      

 

Refreshing Weekend

It was a beautiful weekend and I spent it with family.  This gorgeous guy here–the hubby–

–talked me out of my hermit tendencies (what some refer to as writing… ;)  )  so we could spend time outside together.  Went for walks, relaxed on the back porch with our hands over our beverages since the wind was whipping little seed husks off the trees over our heads.  The house blocked most of the wind, so our private haven held a slight breeze… along with the falling husks.  They sparkle when they catch the sun, so at times, it felt like being in a fairytale.

Everything is turning green, our fescue stretches out far, a comforting emerald carpet.  The hostas have burst from the ground and are unfurling big, velvety green and variegated leaves with a speed you can almost see.  We had pansies survive the winter and the hubby and I made plans for some new garden color.  He has this thing for begonias–I go for more big leafy color.

But he was right to get me outside.  It was just what I needed.  Fresh air and hubby time.  So, I’m ready to face the upcoming week. 

In addition to day job, my goal is 1500 words a day.  I know, my usual is 3000, but that’s a little difficult with full time work and busy spring kiddo activities.  It’s not healthy to consistently miss your goal, so sometimes a more reasonable amount will spark a bigger fire.

Because, knowing me, I’ll sling past the goal most days. 

Shot by my daughter–last year’s fescue.

 

Some Weeks You’re Just… Off

Yeah, I look quite a bit like this today.

I screwed up.  I have a writer’s conference in two weeks and I’ve been trying to get back into shape for that as well as some author photos I need done.

Gradual is just not in my makeup.  Nope.  I must jump full force into everything I do. 

Works with writing. 

Not so much with heavy exercise after surgery. 

I’ve babied my middle–I know, I’m supposed to– but it looks like someone else’s middle and it’s driving me crazy. It’s been twelve weeks and I’ve breezed through this whole experience for the most part.  I haven’t felt twinges of pain in a couple of weeks.  I’ve been walking on my treadmill and doing some free weights for my arms.  I thought I was ready.

What do I do?  Strap heavy ankle weights on my body and do leg lifts, crunches and a sweaty, loooooong hike on the treadmill.  The same day. 

Last night was hell on earth.

I get to spend today recovering.  Luckily, I took the day off to write.  I plan to knock out an entire chapter.  Looks like I’ll be able to sit still without a problem since moving is torture. 

I’d soak in the tub but um… well, I don’t want to make another situation worse.  In fact, I made a joke about my other “Loreal” disaster this week.  This graphic is not pretty on purpose.  Neither is my tan.