Restless in Turtle Land

It had to be done.

On Monday I moved our female turtle, Molly, into her own house.  The amazing habitat my husband built just wasn’t big enough for two anymore. Ever since Molly came out of hibernation, Roger has made the poor girl’s existence a nightmare. If she so much as pokes her face out of the substrate, he thinks it’s time for some lovin’.

She wasn’t eating or bathing. She wouldn’t even come out from under her rock. Poor thing needed some intervention.

So I fixed up a plastic crate with rocks, wood chips, a private bath and a flower-festooned clay hut. Then I transferred Molly to her new digs. She loves it! Now she comes out, eats, and tootles around her home.

The only problem is, I had to put Molly’s house inside the bigger habitat so she’d get the light and heat she needs from the special lamps. Since her new home is clear plastic, Roger can still see the object of his affection.

He crawls along the edge like a lovesick peeping tom, clawing at the plastic. I think if he could howl, he would. I’m hoping time will calm his wild turtle urges, but until then it’s bachelorhood for Roger.

The thing is, I know how he feels. And I’m not referring to spring time friskiness. (We won’t go there.) I know what it’s like to see the thing I want yet be blocked by a barrier I don’t understand. I see my goal of publication and I scratch away, trying to move toward it, and I think, “Why can’t I get there? Why can’t I have that?”

Poor Roger and me. We need a distraction. We need to appreciate the stuff we have. Maybe we should take up a hobby. What if I dipped him in paint and let him crawl over a canvas? That would keep us both occupied for a while, and maybe Turtle Art would be the next big thing.

Anyone else out their frustrated? What’s the goal you can see but just can’t get to?

And how much would you pay for art created by a licentious turtle?

Demons in the Drains

In my last blog I was looking forward to being Human Again in April. Well, it’s April and I’m not human yet.

Many of you know I’m trying to finish my young adult urban fantasy novel for a conference this month. Progress is good. I’m at around 96,000 words and closing in on the finish, but there have been a few hiccups in my real world.

At the end of March I took my mother in for what we thought was a detached retina. After two doctor visits, we were told she’d had a stroke and would never regain the vision she lost in her left eye.

Mom is very positive about the whole thing and thinking of designing a line of bedazzled eye patches for her online Dragon Lady Shoppe. We also thought about dressing her bunny up as a parrot to go with her new pirate look. Our poor pets probably don’t have a clue what animal they actually are.

We don’t know much more about Mom’s condition as we are waiting to have tests and get results back.

So we managed to get through our crisis and Spring Break which is always a bit of a crisis too, and get back on track. Then Kory went on a business trip.

In just a little over 24 hours:

1. I got one of those calls from the school. “My son said what? MY son?! Put him on the phone!”
2. The boys’ toilet spewed water all over the bathroom. I suspect a poltergeist. Now that they no longer flush toys and plastic cups, I fail to see what biodegradable substance could’ve caused such an epic clog.
3. We had a blizzard.
4. The dog took allergy medicine. She seems fine and not once has she complained of a runny nose, sneezing, or itchy eyes.
5. The kitchen sink clogged. Poltergeist again?
6. Monkey came down with a virus.

 When Kory texted that he’d landed in Denver I told him both boys were in bed with me (Monkey sick, Chunky had a nightmare) and that he should just find a hotel room. My exact words were, “Save yourself!”

He came home anyway. Good because he fixed the sink. Bad because three adult-sized bodies (plus allergy-free dog) in one bed does not make for a good night’s sleep. At least we managed to get Chunky back to his bed.

My husband teased me that he couldn’t leave me alone for one night. He knows I can handle things, it’s just that when Kory’s away, the poltergeists come out to play.

I know I’m not the only one who’s experienced disaster while my spouse was gone. Please, share your stories. It’s a less violent way to relieve stress than attacking said spouse the moment he or she returns.

Human Again

I’ve found myself humming this song over the past couple of weeks. Between my extremely restrictive diet and my commitment to write two thousand words every day, March hasn’t been much fun.

When I think about things I want to do, like eat a piece of cheese, read Cassandra Clare’s Clockwork Princess, or get a pedicure, I say to myself, “I can do that in April when I’m human again.”

When my friends ask how long I’ll be doing this ludicrous diet, I answer, “I’ll be human again in April.”

When my husband asks if we could have a conversation about something other than airships and clockwork people, I tell him, “When I get this book done, I’ll be human again.”

When Monkey asked me why I had so much gray hair, well, I couldn't say “I’ll have dark hair in April when I’m human again.” Monkey is a literal child and comes up with enough reasons to panic on his own. When he asked, “Is it because we’re driving you nuts?” I told him that was just something moms say. Then I promised to get my hair colored in April.

It may seem like I’ve become some unkempt, starving, cranky writer. It seems that way to me some days. But in fact, this month taught me some really valuable lessons.

1. I CAN write fast if I need to.
2. I CAN stick to a schedule and prioritize tasks.
3. I CAN encourage my boys to take more responsibility for their own needs.

For most of my writing journey, when outside pressures pulled at me, I’d tell myself, “You need to put ______ first. After all, you don’t have a contract, so you’re not a real writer.”

Yeah, it was a stupid, unprofessional message to give myself, but I don’t have to explain Mom Guilt to you. Some mornings it beats you to the coffee pot.

But having this goal to finish my novel before the conference I’m attending next month legitimized the decision to put my writing first. It forced me to do laundry and meal planning on the weekend. Ok, so the meal planning involved dumping ingredients together and freezing them and having convenience foods on hand for the kids. But for me that's huge. My kids are going to look back on my deadlines with fondness, remembering those weeks as the only times Mom let them have Hot Pockets.

And by getting my word count done during the day, I had more focus for mom stuff in the evenings.

You might not think it to look at me with my grays showing and my house in disarray, but my month as a full-on crazy writer has done me and my family good.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m ready to be human again.

The Pooper Shoot

Well, yesterday stank.

Everything was perfectly peachy. I wrote 1,800 words on my Work in Progress and was feeling so good about it that I decided to hop in the car and run get the caramel apple lollipops Monkey’s been begging for.

And then I got an email that shot the peach right out of me. I’m not going to go into details, but I will say that it was another cruel blow to my staggering writer’s ego.

Picture Katniss, starving and wounded in the arena. Then shoot her.

I had myself a pity party without any refreshments because I’m on a stupid diet. Why can’t bad news come when I’m not dieting? Oh, because I’m on a diet eleven out of twelve months in the year.

I was grouchy with my kids, the dog, my husband and may have even yelled at Roger the box turtle.

But this morning, just before dawn, I hit the real low point.

I dreamed I was unclogging a toilet. And it wasn’t even our toilet. It was somebody else’s toilet. And it was bad. We’re talking bean burrito bad.

When I woke up I decided God must’ve sent the dream because He knew I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed otherwise. Then I speculated on whether He was trying to tell me that I’m called to be a plumber, not a writer.

I told one of my writing buddies, Mild-Mannered Missionary Mary, about the dream. Mary is writing a book about a woman who interprets dreams so she decided to give mine a go, because fiction authors become experts in whatever topic they’re currently writing about. Anyway, Mary said, “Evangeline, I came up with two possible interpretations for your dream. 1. Your life is full of crap. 2. You’re feeling stuck and you need to let things move along, so to speak.”

Profound words of wisdom.

Thank God I’m surrounded by awesome people like Mary, my husband, mom, and writer friends who don’t run when the mess of my life overflows.

You know, let’s be honest. It flat out stinks. But like another sweet writer friend said, “Take some time to mourn and be angry. Then pull yourself up by the bootstraps, when you’re ready and not before.”

And that’s what I intend to do.

In the meantime, if you’re in need of plumbing services, look me up under Evangeline Knows Poo.

UPDATE: Mary wrote the following gem just to cheer me up. Be sure to check out her thoughts at the end (hee hee) on how unclogging a toilet is a metaphor for the writing life.

How to Unclog a Toilet:
For those stuck with the job

1. Realize that this is going to stink. There just isn’t any way around this.
2. Stop complaining that you are not the one who created this mess.
3. Accept the fact that closing and permanently sealing off the door with Caution tape is not an option.
4. Tools. Make sure you have tools. Believe me, without them, this only becomes a way crappier job.
5. Turn on the bathroom fan and take a deep breath. It could be your last good one for a while.
6. Open the door and step into the room. Yup, there is no plunger handle long enough to avoid that one.
7. Lift the lid. (Keep holding that deep breath.)
8. The plunger must be placed and aligned directly onto the “obstruction” for best performance. Not looking will only prolong the matter.
9. The harder you work, the quicker things will, uh… move along.
10. Try to flush. When the water rises to the top, pull the handle up and in no uncertain terms yell at the toilet to stop. (Mine always listens.)
11. Repeat Steps #8-10 until successful or it is necessary to call the plumber. In which case, you will be thrilled that a human exists to do such vile things.
12. From here on after promise to flush responsibly so things move along as they should.

Please note, any comparison to the actual life of an on-the-verge-of-being-published author, is purely intentional. Sometimes we get stuck with… well, let’s just be honest, crap. We don’t want to deal with it, we don’t want to talk about it, we don’t even want to look at it. But, it won’t solve itself. Bravery is required on our behalf. Armed with the tools of our craft, we can and must work hard until we are successful or call in a writing surgeon. Either way, walking away is not an option. Just as a toilet is designed to… make things go away. Far, far away. It’s only when it doesn’t do its job that things go awry. Even so, writers write. Sometimes we get stuck. But, repeating the process is not just the wise choice, it’s the only choice.