C. L. Freire

The River, The Dolls, and The Chills That Kept Coming

2012-02-09T11:10:00.002-05:00

Okay so, the hubby and I finally found time to watch a new show, which aired this past Tuesday, Feb 7.

**huge thanks and a major shout out to the inventors of the DVR.

Anyway, so ABC ran the pilot of The River, a new paranormal drama from Oren Peli, the genius behind the Paranormal Activity, which were, without question my favorite (and in my opinion the scariest) ghost movies ever. I honestly can't thank Oren enough for the chills that run up my spine each time I think about his "P.A." movies, or whenever I hear the slightest sound in my house at night, or when I feel like someone's watching me. Yeah, I'm not scarred at all.

Enter, "The River", a haunting show about a famous explorer/adventure/tv star who went missing in the Amazon. The show (which we're told is the footage from his wife's attempt to find him) opens six months later, when, after learning that her husband's private beacon was picked up, his wife leads an expedition into the Amazon in search of her husband, Dr. Emmett Cole. At every turn, it seemed, the closer they got to the signal, the creepier the show became; sounds, voices, and frightening discoveries that I won't give away here, as I'm not a walking spoiler.

One thing I will tell you all is this: there was this one part, where they entered an area of the jungle. In the center of this area was the most horrible thing they could have stumbled upon. It was this enormous tree full of old, beat up, broken, dirty, and terrifying dolls, all of them either hanging from the branches, or simply tied to the tree in one way or another. One of the creepiest moments in that scene was when one of the dolls' head turned on it own.

**gotta go to a happy place**

Now, I have to say....there are several things in this world that absolutely terrify me to no end: listed in no particular order, mind you...although the last two are easily the top ones.

#1 Zombies: A fear that keeps me at the ready in the event that the zombie apocalypse ever breaks out.

#2 The Dark: A fear that ensures I'll never loose my eye sight due to eye strain (that's my rationalization and I'm sticking to it).

#3 And the worst one of all: DOLLS! I hate them. Even as a kid, I hated them. And I know why. When I was little, I went to my friend's house (she was three years older than me. There, I discovered her and her older brother, along with some friends of his watching some movie. Of course, I happened to walk in at the worst possible moment: there was this woman trapped in a small room, and these bald, pale-faced dolls with black eyes were tearing into the walls to get to the woman. It scared the hell out of me, and I've never forgotten it; I also have forgotten how I ran from the house so fast, I almost got hit by a car charging across the street to my house. And let me tell you, for a long while, I tried to get over that fear of dolls, but it seems Hollywood was adamant that my fear stay right where it was; a fact I came to realize after watching Poltergeist for the first time, long after that incident with the dolls. And what did it get me, but another fear I stand by, even today: my next biggie. #4 Clowns....nuff said.

Anyway, there it is. The River is a great show that might have sat better with me had it come with a personalized warning about the doll scene.

So, what are some of your fears?

Gender Wars

2012-02-02T19:02:00.002-05:00

You know, my hubby and I were talking today about relationships and the general gender differences. In this day and age, why is that men and women still feel the need to feed into stereotypical gender wars?

We see it everyday.

Men: "Come on, Dude. You can't let a girl beat you."

Women: "Yeah. Girl Power."

Women who don't like sports go for guys who do, and then they complain about how the guy's obsessed with the very thing she knew about from the get-go. And men; they like women who take care of themselves, and yet, when their girlfriend or wife gets her hair done or goes shopping, the men complain, claiming the woman's obsessed with her to-do's. I can go on and on about the various ways men and women can nip at each other, but right now, I'm more interested in what you think about the whole thing.

1. So, where do you stand on the Gender Games?
2. What do you think is the biggest difference between men and women?
3. What would you change about either, if you could?
4. In terms of individual aspects, what do like most (or don't like) about the opposite sex?

I'm dying to see how people answer this.

First Chap of my new book

2012-02-01T03:02:00.001-05:00

Okay so, as far back as I can remember, I've always loved YA books, so I knew I'd inevitably throw my hat into the YA ring someday. Well, for a few months now, I've been working on a YA series about a small-town girl who moves to the big city, where she soon discovers that the world around her isn't what it appears to be, and neither are the new people in her life...namely, her new friends and Jack, her first love. So, I really would love to get some feedback here on this, the first chapter of the book.

Enjoy!
Cindy

1
BUMPKIN LAND BLUES

When I got home from school, I found my parents huddled at the rustic, dining room table, grinning like kids with a juicy secret. It didn’t surprise me to see them there since they were both authors and were virtually always around. But Dad, he was currently working on his second novel, with a nagging deadline right around the corner. And Mom, she was in the I-can’t-wait-for-you-to-read-this-chapter stage of her first book; she’d been raving for the past few weeks about how she was dying to finish it. So why they were slacking off in the middle of the day like that was beyond me.

Tempted as I was to ask them about it, I just sighed and went to my room. I felt kinda bad not feeding into whatever surprise they clearly wanted to share with me. My parents, Jessica and Jonathan Chase were, without question, the only interesting people I knew. They were the highlight of my life, and no, that wasn’t sarcasm. I really do love being around them. They’re easy-going, laid back parents who actually see me as a person, and not a mindless, fragile object they have to watch over until it’s time for me to head out into the world.

But it had been a long day, fraught with boring classes designed to lower I.Q. points by the second, and an endless parade of gossipy, dim-witted, hum-drum nimrods that share the collective belief that all is great and dandy in Bumpkin Land, the tiniest, most uninteresting hole in America.

Honestly, the only smile-worthy moment of my day was when I punched one of the brainless Bumpkinites that I’m always oh-so-thrilled to be around every freakin’ day of my life. Her name’s Marley Waters. She’s this horse-faced pig in my English class who’d decided that this would be a good day to test her chances of survivability by telling the entire small-town-and-still-smaller-minded school that I had a crush on our tenth-grade history teacher, old Mr. Anderson, a bald, bow-tie-wearing relic who smelled like feet and a variety of foul and mysterious cheeses.

“Zoey?” Mom’s voice seeped through my door, deep and serious, which alone was enough to rattle me; she’d never taken that tone with me before.

“What?” I grunted, hurling my plaid backpack at my closet door.

“Zoey, your mother’s calling you. Now get in here.”

I kicked off my sneakers and shot them at the wall beside my wooden dresser, then popped my head outside my room. “What?”

“Zoey Chase, get over here this instant, Young Lady!”

Great. First Mom, now Dad? He’d never Young-Lady’ed me before. Not even when I got into that fight with Cheryl Mosley, back in eighth grade; I’d discovered she was the one who’d told everyone I was born a boy because someone had told her that her boyfriend liked me.

Somewhat shaken by Mom and Dad’s newfound experiences, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Principal of my school had called to rat me out for punching Marley, the horse-faced pig.

“Zoey!” my parents shouted as one.

“Coming.” I lumbered into the dining room with as much interest as I had in throwing on a wicker hat and dancing around a haystack; sadly, that was the pastime of choice in this kill-me-now part of the world. “What is it? I’m tired.”

“Tired?” Mom crossed her arms. “You wanna trade places? Because anytime you wanna be thirty-five, you let me know.”

Dad leaned forward, clasped his hands and looked me dead in the eyes. “Plant it.”

“Why?” I muttered suspiciously, still wondering if the Principal had called.

“Zoey, for the love of…would you just sit down?!” Mom slid a chair out for me with her leg, her face matching the impatient tone of her voice.

“If this about the pig…in my defense, she deserved to get punched.”

Mom’s forehead tightened in curious confusion. “Uh, no. But we’ll get back to that later.”

“Never mind. It’s not that interesting,” I mumbled, taking a sudden interest in the hideous, oval, multi-colored rug at my feet.

“Knowing you, I doubt that.”

“Zo, we have something to tell you,” Dad said, in this sort of haunting tone.

I plopped down in the wooden chair, officially worried to all hell. The only time we gathered at the dining room table like this was when, for better or worse, something serious was about to rock the Chase household. This was where I found out that Dad had landed his first book deal; that was a good day; we went to Nancy’s Diner to celebrate that night. Not glitzy, I know, but this is Bumpkin Land, and sad as it is to admit, the aluminum sheeting on the wall over the diner’s counter is about as glitzy as it gets in a town built for, and run, by Bumpkinites.

This table’s also where I found out Nana, my great-grandmother, had been diagnosed with cancer. We were really close, she and I, so losing her was really hard. She used to visit a lot, and even though she’s been gone for almost a month now, I sometimes feel like she’s still around. It especially hits me when someone comments on how much I look like her, what with having the same pale (bordering on vampiric) complexion, light-green eyes and nearly-black hair that she had, back before she turned to the gray side of the tracks. Unlike Nana, however, who tended to wear her hair short, mine has always been long, down to my waist, although you’d never know it, since I always wear it up in a ponytail.

Similarities to Nana aside, most of the time, people who never got to meet her, argue that I look more like Dad than I do Mom, using our overly-expressive eyes a prime example of what Dad brought to the Zoey party. He has one of those young faces with hints of gray at the temples, which tends to throw people off and leave them whispering their theories as to his age. To this day, few know he’s actually thirty-eight years old.

A lot of people also insist I look like Mom. The same people who have a tendency to point out how time had definitely been a friend to her. And they’re right. She’s a wrinkle-free thirty-five-year old, who looks more like twenty-five, and stands at whopping 5’ 3 inches, with almond-shaped eyes that are the same chestnut-brown as her shoulder-length hair. I sometimes get a kick out of watching the biscuit-loving women of Bumpkin Land take their ogling husbands and run, when Mom enters a room.

Personally, I only see bits and pieces of myself in them. For instance, height aside, my heart-shaped face, I owe to Mom, while the thickness of my hair, I owe to Dad. It still haunts me though when I see pictures of Nana. Back when I was ten, I once found a picture of her, and actually tried to convince Mom that she was mistaken when she insisted it wasn’t me in the photo.

Mom side-glanced Dad with a glint in her eyes, while he threw her a mysterious grin.

I looked at her, then at him. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Dad placed an arm across her shoulders and dropped his other hand on mine. “So listen…as you know, your mom was always Nana’s favorite granddaughter.”

“I know,” I replied quietly.

“Well…as it happens…she left a…a will,” Mom said with slow intent. Then she paused, leaving her last word hanging out there all alone, as she looked at Dad again, then at me.

Funny, this careful construction of suspense was something I’d expect from my sometimes-melodramatic father. Not her. I guess the fusing of two minds into one is what seventeen years of being married to your best friend will do to a couple.

I couldn’t take the waiting anymore, so I finally said, “And? What, she left you something? Oh god, don’t tell me it’s the bird’s nest hat she bought when she came to visit last year. Please don’t tell me you’re actually gonna wear that in public.”

Mom and Dad looked at each other again, then she said, “She left me the apartment.”

I sat there, frozen in disbelief, like in the movies, when someone says something and everything pauses to the sound of a record scratching. “No. No, you don’t mean…the apartment in…in…the city?” I barely got the words out.

Mom nodded slowly.

My eyes swelled. “So that means we’re—”

“Well, now hold on,” Dad said. “We’ve been discussing it and—”

“Discussing what? What’s there to discuss?”

Dad straightened his back. “What to do, I mean. Do we sell it? Or do we move there? You know, we could get a small fortune for the place, what with it being in Middletin.”

My heart nearly stopped, my hopes dying like an oxygen-starved animal. “You couldn’t have opened with that?” I got to my feet in a huff. “Why would you get my hopes up with all this drama, just to tell me we’re staying here?” I turned away from them, gearing up for a good stomping back to my room.

“Honey, don’t go.”

I turned back to Mom with a drag of my head.

“Jon, I told you not to tell her this way.”

Dad started to laugh. “What, and miss this? Miss that?” he said, pointing in my direction.

Confused, I inched closer to the table. “That’s not funny.”

“Yeah, it is,” muttered Dad, through a lingering chuckle.

“You’re so gonna pay for that,” I said, throwing a playful sneer his way.

Mom slid my chair out further. “Zo, sit down, please.”

After a second, I slid down into it, my eyes narrow.

“The bottom line is this,” Dad took on a more serious tone, “we’ve lived here all our lives, and we love it here. But we know you don’t, and with the success of the book, now we can finally afford to give you the sort of life you’ve always wanted.”

“What do you mean? I…I love it here, too.”

Dad tilted his head at me in an all-knowing way. “Zo, come on. You don’t think we see how unhappy you are here?”

Amazing. I’d spent my life trying to hide my true feelings about this place, and I thought I’d done a great job, with the exception of a rant here and there. Well, apparently I was wrong. “I’m sorry.”

Mom stopped me with a lift of her hand. “Don’t be. We understand. This place isn’t for everyone, we know.”

“Anyway,” Dad said, “since you two boredom-mongers need it fast and open, here it is. We’re moving to the city.”

“Is this another one of your jokes? Because if it is, I swear I’m gonna make lives hell here ‘til I graduate.”

They just shook their heads.

Without a word, I got up and went to my room.

“Zoey?” Mom called after me. “You OK?”

“I’m fine,” I said, pressing my back to the door, trying my best to contain my euphoria.

The city. I couldn’t believe it. We were finally leaving Bumpkin Land and all those Bumpkinites behind. My heart started racing something wicked. I danced around my room, squealing and shaking, as city shots from movies rampaged through my mind. I ran to my closet-like thing, pulled out my Buick-sized, red duffel bag and tossed it over by the bed. Then I grabbed Old Boxy. That’s what I called this hard-as-steel suitcase Dad bought for me back when I was thirteen, for our trip to Disney World, where we went to celebrate the release of his book.

Old Boxy was covered in bumper stickers from dozens upon dozens of cities its previous owner had been to. I knew the minute I saw it in the window of Gorman’s Second-Hand Goods that day, that I had to have it, if only to live vicariously through someone who’d actually broken through the borders of this nothing town. Every time I see Old Boxy, it kills me that, to-date, the only sticker that didn’t come with it was the one I’d added after our trip to Disney. My own said little contribution to the reality that there was an entire world out there, just waiting for me to explore it.

I propped open my duffel on the bed and went to work, yanking every T-shirt and pair of jeans from my closet and shoving them into the bag without the slightest interest in folding them. Wrinkles be damned. I had a new life coming to me. One I’d been waiting for…well, all my life. When the duffel begged for mercy, I plopped Old Boxy onto the bed, gathered up all my books—there were a lot of them, more than I realized—and stacked them in the suitcase. Then I brought over all my movies and threw them in, followed by the million-or-so framed pictures of my parents and me that were scattered all over my room. When I couldn’t fit anything else in—and luckily, there wasn’t anything else I needed to put in Old Boxy—I stuffed some socks in the little empty spaces to make sure all my most-valued possessions were tightly packed.

My room-raid was topped off when I took down my poster of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, which I carefully rolled up and slid into the art tube I bought the same day I bought the poster. It was last year, at the town’s annual garage sale. It’s actually considered a big event around these parts. Everyone comes down to Main Street and spends all day trying to pawn all their it’s-garbage-to-me-but-you-can-have-it things on all the Bumpkinites on the hunt for a second-hand bargain.

I happened to be walking by one of the tables with my parents, when I noticed this poster with a partially-faded section sticking out from under a pile of fishing books. Curious, I slid the books aside and just stood there, staring down at the image, which grabbed me from the minute I caught a glimpse of the haunting diner in the poster. It was, in fact, the first time anything had grabbed me in this place, so I had to have it. The greedy Bumpkinite behind the table must’ve seen the glint in my eyes, because despite the poster’s $1.00 sticker price, he jacked it up to $20.

As much as I wanted to tell him off, I bit my tongue and dipped into my allowance to buy it. But it was worth it, because for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope that something could stir me out of the Bumpkin Land-induced state of absolute numbness. I hung the poster up the minute we got home and spent an hour just staring at it. Staring at the people in the diner and at the empty street. I mean, I was so lost in the loneliness and isolation of the entire image, that I actually dreamt about it for days.

With Nighthawks safely tucked away and everything packed up and ready to go, I stood at my door, my duffel in one hand, Old Boxy in the other, and the art tube under my right arm. I looked back at my room. It was so barren, it was almost sad. Now that there was no longer the slightest remaining hint of my ever having lived there, it looked like any other typical country bedroom, with pale yellow walls, a sheer, white curtain and a slanted roof.
For a second, I actually felt bad about leaving. Not the town. The town can kiss my ass.

I mean this place. My house. I was really gonna miss it. My entire uneventful life had played out here. I’ve never made friends in Bumpkin Land, but only because in all my sixteen years of life, not a single person in this town has failed to bore me to all hell. I’m not including my parents, of course, because if it wasn’t for them, I think by now, I’d have slipped into a catatonic state just for the fun of tuning out.

I mean, I truly think it’s humanly impossible to care less about Sally Allswat’s newest straw hat, or Mr. Baller’s latest battle with a fish he still refers to as Fishzilla, which he snagged down at Mueller’s Pond last summer; in all honesty, the thing was more like a sardine, but I kept that little nugget of truth to myself. After all, who was I to crush someone’s fantasy, when so few exist in this crap-hole. There is so much dead space here that the Nothing-To-Report Gazette actually found both those stories news-worthy and plastered them all over the front page.

It’s so infuriating being stuck in a place where I’ve never met anyone I could connect with. A place where not one soul has a single interest apart from hayrides, staring up at all the little lights from heaven, which normal people call stars, and gossiping about the lives of everyone around them. People that share the common belief that BLAH was the very definition of chic.

But, here in this house, because of my parents, life was different. They were the only two people I knew who actually had interests, like Mom with her photography—she was a nut about it—and Dad with his knack for story-telling. We’d had a lot of amazing times here, laughing over the dinner table in the country-style kitchen that Mom loved, talking about movies and shows we watched together, not to mention the annual three-person birthday parties we’ve shared.

I still remember this one time back when I was fourteen. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, having a bickerment about how much cheese she should put in a dish she was making. Bickerment was a term I came up with back when I was ten. It was literally the best way to describe their almost-comical way of arguing because of how rare and unimportant the issue always was, and how with a smile, the entire thing was laughed off and set aside like it never happened.

So there they were, having one of their bickerments about the cheese. Mom wanted it more on the heart-friendly side, while Dad believed it wasn’t truly cheesy if you could still see the pasta. I’d left the kitchen for just a second, and when I came back, Mom and Dad were covered in, not only cheese, but also flour, salad dressing, and a wide variety of utterly unidentifiable remnants of food. When they saw me standing there, Mom turned to me, a piece of pasta clinging to her cheek, and threw a handful of mac and cheese at me, bringing me into, what turned out to be, one of the funniest and most memorable dinners ever to unfold in the Chase house.

My excitement over the move suddenly weighed on me. I felt so guilty. Like how I imagine it would feel to turn my back on a friend. But as fun as it had been—not in the town, but here in this house—it was time to move on.

I went out to the living room, where my parents were snuggled on the sofa next to the fireplace, watching an early episode of the new Battlestar Galactica, one of our favorite shows.

“I’m ready.”

My parents looked at me for a second, then giggled.

“I knew it!” I barked, dropping my things. “We’re not going anywhere, are we?”

Mom got up. “Of course we are, Zo. But not until next Thursday. The movers’ll be here on Wednesday to pick up our stuff, so Aunt Milly offered to be at the apartment to meet them.”

With a sigh of relief and an inward thank god, I picked up my gear, heaved it all over to the entryway and dropped it on the hardwood floor.

“What are doing?” asked Dad, looking up at me.

“Just making sure it’s all ready to go,” I answered over my shoulder. There was no way I was gonna take any of it back to my room. It’d be like tempting fate, and not a single part of me was aiming to stare down the barrel of that gun.

The week crawled by like time was playing with me. I barely slept a wink the night before the big day, so the minute the sun came up, I jumped out of bed. With a spring in my step, I threw on the jeans, pink T-shirt and sneakers I’d left out last night, then gathered my hair into my usual ponytail and headed out to the now-empty kitchen.

Mom and Dad were by the sink, talking over coffee, laughing about who-knows-what. And that would have been okay had they been ready to go. But no, they were still in their robes. It was like they wanted to put off our escape from hell as long as possible.

“What’s this? You know, I’m pretty sure they’re not gonna let you on the plane dressed like that.”

“Morning, Honey. Hungry? Your father bought doughnuts.”

“Doughnuts? No. When are you two getting…wait, what kind of doughnuts…no wait, never mind. You should be dressed already. Come on, get a move on,” I said, slapping my hands together.

They just looked at me, giggling, so I took Mom by the arm to hurry her along.

She hesitated and nearly dropped her mug. “Can we please just finish our coffee in peace?”

Dad took a casual sip of his. “Yeah, where’s the fire?”

Mom held out a brown box from Nancy’s Diner. “Relax. Here, have a doughnut.”

“Relax? No. No, I wanna get out of here before…hey, is that a Boston Cream”?

END of Chapter 1. So, any thoughts?

The Journey We All Take As Writers

2012-01-28T09:40:00.000-05:00

This morning, I checked my messages over on FACEBOOK and found one by a good friend of mine, Garrett. He asked me something that got me thinking not only about my personal journey as a writer, but also those of other writers out there. In essence, when do we move on to another story? When do we convince ourselves it's time to walk away and begin something new?

I think it's a question every writer eventually asks him/herself. I mean, how can we not? We put ourselves out there in the most vulnerable way, expressing our thoughts, our emotions and the stories that make us who we are today. Without such deep contribution to our work, it can easily fall flat, bordering on two-dimensional. So, with so much vested in the books we write, when is the right time to walk away without feeling like we're actually taking the easy way out of being dragged down by our own sense of perfectionism?

Being a perfectionist myself, I can tell you what I told Garrett. Only we can judge for ourselves when the time is right. I still remember when it began for me. The day I first started working on David Thorne, back in 2003. It started with my drawing a creature I created, which I still have. She'll make her debut appearance in book four (I believe it's four, if not five). I remember so clearly, sitting there, in bed, with a sketch pad leaning against my legs, pencil in hand, my mind filled with a sense of giddiness I hadn't felt before. So I drew her, thinking, "Is this ever going to be anything?". Then, it was like the floodgates opened, and out came a million other creatures, characters, ideas, names, story lines. But most importantly, possibilities. I loved it. I literally thought about the book (and the series as a whole) 24 hours a day, driving, cooking, shopping. It didn't matter. I was consumed.

When I told my mom about my new venture, which in all honesty, had been brewing in me since I was a kid, she asked when I'd start writing (I was still in the development stage). I told her what I'd told my hubby on day one. "I'll start writing it when I know I'm ready." And so I did....exactly one year coincidentally...from the day I drew that first creature. In that year, I developed the characters, their back stories, the world, the magic, the history of the magicals and the tales that brought them to present day. I even created stores, shops, restaurants, the food they ate, the music they listened to, the hobbies they had, how they played. I mean, every conceivable detail. And when I was done, I started writing the first book.

Interestingly, the original first book was nearly 700 pages. I finished it three months later and when I was done, I actually sat back and smiled. I thought I would explode. I ran to my hubby and shouted over and over, "I did it! I finished! I wrote a book!" He was so happy for me. But then he said something that I will never forget, as it still haunts me today (and we still laugh about it to no end, believe me).

He said, and I quote, "Now the hard part starts."

I looked at him like he was crazy. He'd been there with me every step of the way as I worked on this book. He knew how much of myself I'd put into it. That was the hard part, fun as it was. But I wrong. Not about the fun aspect of creating and writing DT. But about the hard part beginning with typing that last word in the book.

Of course, the next day, it made sense. That was when I started the dreaded editing process. A process every writer hates more than bomb-wielding nut-jobs. Okay, maybe not that much, but you get the idea. I went through that book over and over, changing this and rewriting that for six months. And when I was done, it was sightly longer, though tighter. That's when I began looking up agents and publishers. I'd never done anything like that before, so just seeing the term Literary Agent online made me squeal like a school girl, and it yet terrified me. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Was I in over my head? I'm nobody. Did I really think I could do this? I mean, what the heck's a query letter? What's a synopsis? What bio? It was all so foreign to me. But I dove in and learned as much as I could through Google searches and writing forums. The most unnerving thing I uncovered was that my 119k word middle grade book was waaaay too long for that market, and even longer still for a debut novel.

So I took two chapters out of the book, and wrote an entirely new one around it. THAT became the current first book in the series, and what was left behind became book two. So it actually worked out beautifully. But of course, now I had to start rewriting and reediting all over again. My blood curdled just thinking about it, what with all the rounds of edit and rewrites I'd just gone through with the original book. But it had to be done, so again, I dove in, head first. It took a long time to get it to where it is now, and even today, I can't go back and look at it because I know, as a perfectionist, it will never be perfect.

"Books are never finished, they are merely abandoned." -Oscar Wilde

How true is that? Oh god! So, I walked away. Honestly, I love the book as is. I'm immensely proud of it. So I say to all authors who ask themselves if it's okay to put it down and start something new: Just do it, because when that last breath leaves us one day, the last thing we want to say is, "I wrote A book."

One more thing I'd like to add before I end this. I want to thank my hubby for always being there for me. Ready with amazing ideas and unending inspiration, support and love. Without him, I would never had be able to push ahead. I know how that sounds, but he has always been there, ready to give me his thoughtson every aspect I approached him about. Never judging. Laughing with me, not at me. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

So, it's important to have a great support system.

What about your journey? Are you a perfectionist? Share it here and inspire others with YOUR story.

I Love My Kindle

2012-01-27T02:28:00.001-05:00

Okay so, as many of you who follow me on Facebook, I recently bought my first Kindle Touch 3G. Thanks, by the way, for all the advice and info on my new toy. So far, I'm loving it! I love that I can sync it with my Android and read books from either. This weekend, I'm diving into the first book in the Hunger Games trilogy. There's a Hunger Games movie coming out soon, so I want to finish the book before I see the flick. Don't want to be veered from the author's vision, and all that. When I'm done with the book, I'll post my thoughts on it here.

Anyone else read it? If you have, share your final comments on it here, but please, no spoilers.

Getting Back Up Is the Hardest Part About Falling Down

2012-01-26T22:47:00.001-05:00

Okay so, I just queried Ethan Ellenberg, of the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency. They are, without a doubt, top notch! Fingers crossed. I know I said I was done with this process, but the truth is, I want it. I want it so badly I can taste it. I want my book to fall into the right hands. I want readers to fall in love with my characters, my stories, all of it. I just feel this is the right thing to do for me...going the traditional route. Who knows. Maybe one day I'll look back and wonder, but for now, it's what I have to do. I don't want to live my life under that proverbial question mark. The one that will haunt me with the eternal mystery of what would have happened had I not taken this step.

Truth be told, it's taken me a long time to be able to do this again. Query agents. Those of you who know what happened to me and numerous other authors at the hands of one unscrupulous b*****d, know that those types of scars can leave a lasting impression on one's confidence. Well, mine was damaged to no end. I suddenly found myself beat down, and frankly, I hated feeling that way. I hate the idea that that loser took us all for such a horrible ride. I hate that it's taken me so long to get back up. But I'm here. I'm up again, and honestly, I will NEVER let anyone beat me down like that again.

So for now, I'm back on track. Doing what needs to be done to realize my dream as an author. Anyone else who feels the same, I congratulate you, my friend.

I'll post updates as to what happens with the query to Ethan Ellenberg.

The Ghosts That Would Not Be Ignored

2012-01-23T11:38:00.000-05:00

Who here believes in (and is afraid of) ghosts? I kinda' sorta' believe in them only because I've had some chilling encounters that still give me goosebumps.

The first one took place when I was about fifteen years old. I remember being home alone (I lived with my mom and 5-yr old little sister at the time). I was in the kitchen, when all of a sudden, I got this sense that I was being watched, so I turned to the counter that led to the dining room. And then I saw it. A thin, pale forearm dipping below the counter, as though someone was there and had just ducked out of sight. I freaked! I didn't know what to do. Should I call the cops? And tell them what, I asked myself. "Hi, there's an arm in my house." I felt like an idiot just thinking about that call, so instead, I looked around for a knife. Sadly, the closest thing to me was a spatula. Before I could grab it though, my mom and sister came home. They found me still standing in the kitchen, shaking. I checked around the house, but there was no sign that anyone had been there but me.

Okay, now that I think about it, that wasn't so much scary as it was ridiculous. Now, that is. Back then, it scared the hell out of me. I guess you had to be there.

A moment of silence to let the blushing smirk on my face pass with a little dignity.

Now, here's the encounter that was downright frightening. It's the kind of story that opens a movie about a haunting that ends with a resounding, "Holy crap!"

This was a long time ago. My mom and her boyfriend were going to Venezuela for four days, so they wanted me and my hubby to stay at her house to watch over my then 15-yr old little sister. The first night we were there was a Wednesday (I remember it clearly because Dawson's Creek was on). At the time, our dog, Gypsy, had just had eye surgery, and she needed some eye drops applied every day. So just before eight o'clock at night rolled around, my hubby went home to give Gypsy her drops really quick. My sister, who'd left when he did, went to my older brother's house. He and his wife lived two doors down, with both my father and little brother.

So there I was, alone in my mom's house, curled up on the sofa with the remote and the giddiness that came with watching Dawson. Not five minutes into the show, I heard voices coming from my sister's room. I didn't freak out, only because I knew it was the T.V.. I got up to turn it off, then came back to the family room, and after I sat down, I heard the T.V. again. Now I freaked because I'd just turned it off. What could I do but get up to do it again, but I did so thinking something must be wrong with her set. So again, I turned it off, but this time, just as I turned my back on the T.V. to leave the room, it came on again. A chill came over me so badly, so I turned back to the room slowly, shaking, not having a clue as to what to do. I was sure someone was in the house, screwing with me. I looked around for something to protect myself with, but the closest thing at my disposal was a flat-heeled shoe that could have easily passed for a slipper. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. Hell, my hubby still refuses to let me forget what my weapon of choice was.

So I grabbed the shoe, which, no doubt would have done nothing more than make the intruder die of laughter before he could attack his slipper-wielding killer. Anyway, so, with shoe in hand, I checked on the other side of the bed where the T.V. was, but there was no one there. I giggled to myself and made to go back to the family room, when suddenly, there was a thud in the hallway in front of me. My first thought was, "Holy crap, someone IS in the house." Now, what would any self-respecting person do in such a situation? Run? Call the cops? Grab a knife? Any of those would have sufficed in preserving my dignity. But no. I ran to the phone, shoe still in hand, and called....wait for it...my little sister.

"Jenn, someone's in the house."

"I'll be right there," she said firmly before hanging up the phone.

Yeah yeah, get it out of your system now.

I went to the kitchen and this time, I grabbed a knife. A BIG knife. Not two minutes later, I went over to the front door in response to the sound of keys. I looked out the peephole and nearly died of laughter myself. My sister had brought our little brother, Chad, who was like eight at the time. He was standing in front of her, his face pale, his hand shaking as he tried to insert the house key. My sister was behind him, her face scrunched up in attack mode as she held out a broom in front of herself like a sword.

Chad and Jenn (today)

They came into the house and we all stood there by the entryway, as I told them what had happened. After I finished, we all heard a loud thud against the wall in the hallway that led to my mom's room. We all froze.

"Well, I have to go home now," my little brother said flatly, as he backed away towards the door. He ran like his ass was on fire, let me tell you.

After he left, my sister and I heard the thud again, only this time, it was closer. She ran to the phone and called my dad, who quickly came over and checked out the house, to no avail. He told us to relax because the house was locked up and safe, then he went home. A few minutes after he left though, we heard it again, and when we looked towards the hallway, we noticed that a side gate outside, which we could see from the living room, was wide open. A gate that was always locked, mind you. This time, we called the cops and told them someone was in the house. They were amazing. The dispatcher told us to stay on the phone until the cops got there, which they did a few minutes later. They came in, and while one checked out the house, the other stayed in the kitchen with us, complimenting the house, the decor, the sofa. Hell, he even flirted with me. At the time I thought, "Thanks and all that, but shouldn't you be looking around for someone to arrest?" Now though, thinking back, he was probably trying to distract us from our own fear. Ten minutes later, the first cop came in and said the house was locked up. He also asked if we drank.

"She's too young, and I don't drink," I told him.

"Well, you might want to start now. Have a beer and relax. And if anything happens, call us back."

My hubby came back not five minutes after the cops left. We told him what had happened, so he checked out the place for himself, then, as it goes, we all decided to watch a horror movie. Yes, a horror movie. Talk about asking for it, huh? The problem was, the wall where the sofa was, had a giant opening next to it, and anyone sitting on the far end of the sofa would have their back to that opening, which was pitch black with the lights turned off. My sister and I squabbled over who'd sit there; neither of us wanted to be the first victim. I lost that battle. I don't remember what we saw, but after the movie, we decided to go to sleep. My sister insisted she sleep with me, so my hubby slept in her room, while Jenn and I slept in my mom's room.

I still remember having this dream where I woke up to find a man in black standing over me with a double barrel shot gun aimed at my face. I woke up so quick. Jenn was sitting up, just looking at me with this terrified look on her face. Just then, my hubby came into the room, looking so confused. He asked if either of us had just been walking in the hallway that led to my sister's room. We said we'd just woken up and had left the bed yet. Then he said he'd been woken up by the sound of high heels and he thought it was Jenn getting ready for school. Then Jenn told us about this dream she's just had, where she'd woken up to a man in black pointing a double barrel shotgun at her face. Chills raced over my spine. She and I had had the same freakin' dream. Then she told us about how so many times, my mom and her had heard voices in the house. And that, this one time, Jenn had come home from school and heard a car gearing up in the garage, so she checked, thinking it was my mom. But the garage was empty. Then she topped off her little ghostly revelation with a fact that I still feel to this day, should have been told to us long ago. She told us that the previous owner had committed suicide in the house. Needless to say, we left and spent the day with my dad.

So, do I believe in ghosts? Kinda, sorta. But have I actually seen them? No. Have I felt/heard them? Uh, yeah!

Who else here has experienced ghostly encounters? Please share!

A Writer's Dream

2012-01-21T22:56:00.000-05:00

As many writers do, I have many goals. I want to touch people, make them think and see the world a little differently, make them laugh, cry and cheer. I want to leave an impression on readers, with stories that they can relate to, about characters they'd love to be friends with. I guess these aren't all that original. But then, they don't have to be, do they? They just have to be genuine. I mean, let's face it. There are two types of writers in this world. Those who dive into this industry strictly for money, guided by the delusion that they'll indeed strike it rich.

Then there are those who become writers solely because of their love for the art of telling a story in a way that nestles its way into the hearts and souls of readers. Those are the writers whose passion carries them through enough rejections to paper the Vatican, the long caffeine-riddled nights sitting in front of a computer, the even longer, fingers-crossed days spent waiting for a door to finally open and welcome in their ideas. These are the writers who touch people, only with their ability to reach some deep part of their readers, but also with their strength, perseverance, and willingness to stand by their dreams. Those are the writers who make up a corner of this world I'm proud to be part of.

So, curiously. What would you say is/are your ultimate dream goal(s)? Where do you stand on this difference in writers?

Line It With Silver And Reach For The Stars

2012-01-18T11:54:00.000-05:00

Perception can be a tricky thing. It can break us, or give us the strength to fight back.

"Back when I began querying agents for my first book, I jumped into that dark part of the game like a champ. Smiles, big hopes and wild imagine-if's. But, as the rejections rolled in (as they do for so many of us, sadly) I felt the weight of disappointment and self-doubt settle in, like an unwelcome visitor. But, it forced me to turn my back on the empty, form rejections, and figure out why I was getting them. Because of that, I learned so much about the business, agents, and publishers, as well as what they're looking for during that initial contact period. It was my silver-lining moment. Now, when the rejections come, I look at them in a different light. A light that tells me it will happen when the time is right and the road is mine to travel."-C. L. Freire

That's what I wrote on Dax M. Tucker's blog the other day. He's a writer I came across through Twitter. I left that comment in answer to an entry that found quite thought provoking, centering on a subject I related to in both my writing and personal life. It was about the The Power of Perception.

He wrote about how we see things, events and the like, and how we respond to them. Not directly, mind you. But more, how we deal with them, personally. He closed with a question, which, if we're true to ourselves and answer honestly, helps us get to know ourselves better. It was a post I highly value and appreciate.

Personally, I'm a true believer in the silver lining moments of our lives. Those moments when we come to a crossroads, and have the opportunity to ask ourselves how we'll deal with those times that test our strength, courage and confidence during this long journey we call life. I choose to take these tests and learn from them. I refuse to let them keep me down. I refuse to allow them to dictate where my life will go, where my road will take me, and what will happen to me along the way.

So, it got me thinking about what other people have to say on this matter. How do you handle those little moments? Are you a silver liner, too?

The Golden Globes and The Non-Jokes That Filled The Night

2012-01-16T00:24:00.000-05:00

So,, The Golden Globes were on tonight. Well, Sunday night, to be exact. I just read a T.V. blog post that claims the host was as funny as last year. Well, no offense to the host or to the folks who made such a (questionable) claim as to his sense of humor, but I saw the opening. That's when the host is supposed to be as his/her funniest, in order to open the show.

Needless to say, I didn't laugh once, but instead, my hubby and myself both spent those minutes we'll never get back, rolling our eyes from the moment the host stepped out on stage, to the moment he introduced Johnny Depp (the first presenter). Not only didn't we laugh once, but every time the camera panned across the audience, the celebrities there offered their own variations of an eye roll, followed by the, "Oh, crap, the camera's watching. Let me smile as though I actually believe he's making me laugh, when in reality, I'm thinking about him having large amounts of monkey poop heaved directly at his head."

Actually, now that I think about it, we did laugh...but only in sharing the thought of seeing the host covered in the same poop he was flinging during his supposedly-funny monologue.

Publishers and the Wake-Up Call They So Much Need

2012-01-15T18:47:00.000-05:00

Why are publishers so ignorant about what readers want? In checking the websites of various publishers lately, I've found that they seem intent on ignoring the changing environment of readers and technology. E-books, for instance. They've been shattering print book sales for the last couple of years, and yet, publishers are only NOW hoping on the E-book bandwagon as though it's something THEY'VE discovered. Also, they're still intent on restricting word count limits to numbers like 30k for middle grade books. Have they NOT heard that books like Potter began around 75k? A big FYI to publishers.....children ARE capable of reading more than ten words, you know. Don't make the mistake of underestimating the readers. Give them what they want. Good Books!

The Bull, The Chatterbox, and The Tornado I Desperately Hoped For

2012-01-14T01:12:00.007-05:00

Okay so, Friday (yesterday), The 13th, it turns out, I went to the doc with my hubby. First off, I AM NOT a morning person. Neither is my other half. Yes, we like to sleep in sometimes, wake up to some coffee and generally start our days with a kiss, a smile, and many laughs. This was not that day. See, my hubby had a doctor's appointment. Neither of us had slept very much, so we were both exhausted. Naturally, what better time to hit up a doctor's office to sit around over an hour for an appointment, for which we were ten minutes early.

See, I don't get that. Why is it that every doctor LOVES to overbook? It's like their patients don't matter. Like our time means nothing. UGH! So there we were. Waiting. Watching the clock not tick away; it was downright teasing us. Meanwhile, I felt like those people in movies that are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, where every single sound and room-filling irritation is amplified, bubbling up inside like a pressure cooker about to explode.

There was the clock that was more like a novelty item, set there to perpetuate the illusion of passing time.

There was the woman with the baby that refused to allow anyone within a ten-mile radius to retain their ability to hear.

There was the Chatterbox who believed she was sitting in her living room, sharing every mundane detail of her even-more-mundane existence with someone who she simply did not allow to speak; I swear, at one point, I even told my husband that I didn't think she was talking to anyone because of how her mouth ran non-stop for forty-five minutes.

And finally, there was the absolutely charging-Bull-of-a-woman who stormed into the office so savagely, she actually slammed the door into my hubby, who was sitting by the entrance. She was a real charmer, that one! And to add a little sugar to her bowl of bitchy charms, instead of apologizing, as any normal person would when they cause pain and suffering to others, she had the audacity to tell my hubby that he shouldn't sit there. It was all I could do not to grab that Bull, drag her out to the street and toss her like the trash she was, under a moving car.

Between the screaming baby, the seemingly-broken clock, the for-the-love-of-god-please-shut-her-up Chatterbox, and the savage Bull, I swear I felt like my nerves were on the verge of giving up. I could literally feel my hands shaking. I didn't know what to do. Should I get up? Pace around? Throw the Chatterbox unmistakable dirty looks? Toss the trashy Bull under a car? And all the while, reality kept nipping at my ass. I was stuck there, with no choice but to wait.

And then, a taste of peace set in for the briefest of moments when the Chatterbox finally ended her loud, annoying, obnoxious, conversation-dominating phone call. I closed my eyes and took in the peace; the baby's mother had shoved a bottle of milk in her mouth, so the baby was back on my she's-so-cute side. And not a second after I closed my eyes, the Bull's phone rang. And she was off.

"Hello?" she said so loudly, I felt it in my bones.

I turned to my hubby and whispered in his ear, "Is there a hidden camera in here or something?"

Believe me when I say, I could actually HEAR a ranting blog writing itself in my head.

He laughed, catching the attention of the Bull, who promptly got up and took her call outside. Yup, in that one split moment, she earned a teensy portion of my forgiveness and whisked away (to a minor extent) the vast array of very disturbing thoughts rumbling around in my head.

I mentioned to my hubby how that was very polite of her, and how rude it was to take a call in front of people who want to sit in peace. Of course, the Chatterbox must've heard me; I could tell by the, "Ugh, whatever," face she threw me. But I didn't care. Hopefully she got the point.

So, all in all, it was a crappy experience, filled with endless waiting, a screaming baby, a trashy Bull, an obnoxious Chatterbox, and the desperate hope that a natural disaster (of the minor variety) would take aim at certain people in that office.

Fun times! So much for the whole, "Friday the 13th is just some silly superstition" thing.

Harry Potter will live forever....apparently

2012-01-07T06:34:00.002-05:00

Okay so, I'll be the first to admit that I personally enjoyed the Harry Potter books. Though I did have my problems with the entire series, but, I'm not here to bash Rowlings or her books. No, I'm more on a mission to find out one thing.

Why is the reading world intent on believing that any author who writes about a wizard or a witch or even just magic, is attempting to ride the coat-tails of a popular series?

I mean, come on. Really? And now, it's also a fact that if you write about vampires, you're trying to hitch a ride on the popularity of Myer.

When did this become a society of readers who believe that every wizard is an HP knockoff, and every vampire is a clone of those ever-lovable (COUGH * GAG!) sparkly, softball-playing vampires (who are the least vampiric vamps in history)?

It's not about WHAT you write. It's HOW you write, the story you tell, how the characters are written, how the story unfolds. That's what distinguishes one book from another. And for people to say that ANY book that uses the term wizard or the word magic is an HP clone is simply defunct of any brain activity.

I've actually read so many reviews of various books that are compared to HP (for instance) for the most amazingly mundane reasons. Like if it's a story about an orphan, naturally it's from an author who copied Potter.

Neither Potter, not Twight (the entire series, mind you) are even remotely original. And there's nothing necessarily wrong with that. I mean, books have been around for a helluva long time. There's always inspiration. But there's also a little thing called DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS. Different story angles. Different characters, settings, worlds, myths, etc...

It's high time people stop comparing one book to another, in terms of crying CLONE based on story aspects that authors like Rowlings and Myer used when writing their own versions of what's been around longer than they themselves have been around.

Why not read books and allow them to stand on their own? Judge them on their own merits. Take them for what they are. Simply enjoy them for what they are, and stop demeaning those hard-working authors who simply love to write.

The Job, The Shark, and The Brain Cells That Failed To Fire

2012-01-06T18:29:00.002-05:00

Okay so, I have a problem. It's a problem I'm sure a lot of people experience on those dreaded days when we clear away the clutter that somehow found its way into our lives in the last week. Those abominable days when we pull out the Windex, pour on the Pledge, and overall tend to those home invading dust bunnies that seem determined to become a permanent fixture in our lives. Yes, folks. I'm talking about cleaning day. Ugh! Is there a more grotesque term in existence? What a monumental waste of time. A time more boring than, oh, I don't know, watching paint dry, or grass grow, or even sitting and pondering the wonders of our own toenails.

See, I have tile floors, which I hate with every fiber of my soul and want to change every time I open my eyes. I also have five cats. Even though the cats generally stay out in the closed in terrace, they come in for about an hour everyday, and with them comes hairballs so big, I still find myself checking to make sure the cats aren't bare-a** bald. And, as it goes, that tile floor needs vacuuming with a hair-ravenous machine that, like the Terminator, simply will not stop until it gets the job done. Unfortunately, most companies like to tout their weapons of no destruction as the best and most efficient vacuum in the known universe.

Believe it or not, I've actually bought six vacuums in the past year. Yup, I've literally run the gamut of vac companies, from Hoover and Eureka, to Bissel and the latest let-down: Shark. Every one of them has been returned a week later, once the joke fell upon us. That is to say, once we became enlightened to the monster we call FALSE ADVERTISING.

And so, I give you the latest in the IT'S GOING BACK Winter Line.

The Shark Navigator Lift-Away Pro Bagless Upright Vacuum Cleaner

See, my problem with this machine is not--for once--the suction power itself so much as the same problem every other vac has had in addition to the suction issue. This damnable machine has this joke of a vac tube that is all of about two feet long. Naturally, the box goes on and on about the convenience of this tube, for jobs where you need to get into corners and such. But what the box fails to mention is how every time you try to use the tube in a place further than two inches from the vac, the vac tips over! Now how the frick does that help anyone, um?

I mean, there I am, trying to feed that side of me that doesn't want to live with dust bunnies and cat hair, and all I've got to work with is two inches of tube reach! Come on! What brainiac came in to work one day and decided it was a most fabulous idea to make a vac with a two-foot gesture of a tube for those hard-to-reach places? Did he intend it to be used only in a smurf's house? Because he really should have put that on the box, you know.

When are these greedy, lying, cheating vac companies gonna make something actually worth buying, using, and keeping for more than a week? You know, as penance, I truly believe that the makers of such useless gadgets should be forced to ditch their $500 Dysons and use their own products everyday. And not just on their floors. No sir. I'm talking those tight corners high up on their cathedral ceilings. Yeah. And behind things. And under things that require more than their paltry 2 feet of tubing length.

I'd pay to see that. Wouldn't you?!

Working It! The Gender Game That Stumps Us All

2012-01-04T21:20:00.001-05:00

Well, I saw the new show called, Working It. Apparently, it's caused a lot of controversy among the transgender community. Honestly, I think they should either watch the show and see it for what it is, or find something else to watch. I'm not trying to sound flip here, but the truth is, it's just a show about two guys who dress like women to get jobs, simply because of the limited opportunities today. It's not a show that mocks anyone. In fact, the show doesn't even take itself seriously enough to warrant more than a resounding, "What was that?" All in all, the show was barely okay, in terms of funny. I mean, I laughed once or twice, but that's it.

Now, something else I'd like to comment on. Guys, this one's for you. You look at women all the time. You ogle them to the point that your eyes roll around like those creepy dolls. You lose all sense of your name, age and other vital info we learn as kids. And yet, when it comes to dressing up like a woman (for instance, on Halloween, or just on a dare), you haven't a clue. Here's a tip. Women don't walk like John Wayne. Women don't swing their hips like their trying to bump the people standing four feet away on either side of them. And finally, w.Women don't talk like helium is the newest trend to hit the streets.

Let's face it. Women are generally feminine. They're soft-spoken (unless we're angry, and then it's everyone man for himself). And we walk with a gentle swagger to remind men that our hips were meant to be admired. And before any men go off and start with, "Hey, I'm a man. How am I supposed to know how to act like you?" Well, pay attention, boys. After all, the very thing you're attracted to, should, by now, be as familiar to you as your best friend.

And to all you women out there. Despite popular misconception, men don't openly scratch, fart, burp and shout...for the most part, anyway. No. Those special little moments of joy they save for their wives and girlfriends. So when you're out, acting like a man (again, in costume, I mean), pay attention to your man (and every other one around you), and ask yourself how they really act.

The fact is, when dressing like the opposite gender, it's funnier when taken seriously, and not just played for laughs. Because in the end, like the new show, Working It, playing it over the top tends to leave it falling flat...on it's proverbial a**.

Diary of a Zombie Kid. Creative, wasn't he?

2011-12-22T20:53:00.001-05:00

This is so pathetic!

Wimpy Kid Goes To Court

Someone actually published a book that's virtually a Xeroxed copy of Wimpy Kid. It's called...wait for the awe-inspiring and incredibly original title...Diary of a Zombie Kid. Hell, the cover is almost exactly like Wimpy Kid.

Really??????

The article about the lawsuit also has comments. I can't believe one of them, which defends the one who broke the law. He actually condemns the Wimpy Kid author for suing the other one, claiming how "nice it looks for the Wk author to go after the struggling author. Hey, it's not about the money. It's about the hard work and dedication it takes to be a writer. Wimpy Kid is the result of the author's hard work. Zombie Kid is the result of someone incapable of tapping into their own imagination, and who must, instead, feed off the success of someone who knows what it takes to get it done.

So no, it's not about money, or quashing the little guy. I mean, in the beginning, the Wimpy Kid author was also a little guy. One who discovered a niche and ran with it. You know, I can't stand it when authors cheat. It's just shameless how many so-called writers there are out there, who care nothing about the craft, but more the payoff. Those are the ones who either live in court, or die unknown.

Change the Channel

2011-12-21T17:12:00.001-05:00

I've just learned that certain "special interest" groups are demanding that ABC cancel a show that hasn't even aired yet.

WHAT????

You know, I'm so tired of these people who try and dictate what everyone else can watch, just because the group is "offended"! Get over yourselves! The show is called "Work It"...a story about how two blue-collar men who've been unemployed for some time have no choice but to dress as women to get jobs.

And yet, the "groups" in question claim that the show (which they haven't even seen yet) defames transgender people. Of course, I won't mention which groups are behind this ridiculous and self-absorbed issue, because I actually support their efforts....except on this issue, that is.

How ignorant is it that they're out there, making demands based on what offends THEM, and all without having solid knowledge of what the show is actually about? Not to mention, the arrogance of telling US what WE can and can not watch? Personally, I hope ABC picks up their proverbial balls and stands their ground. And to those groups...please, just change the damn channel and let the rest of us enjoy that little thing we call FREEDOM!

The Gentle Giant Lives To Cool Another Day

2011-11-03T11:28:00.000-04:00

Our fridge is fixed!

OMG!

So this morning, my doorbell rang, delivering great news. It was the repairman from Sears, come to finally fix my fridge. I swear, it was like I was transported back to my childhood during Christmas and I was witnessing the arrival of Santa. You know, you never truly appreciate the gentle frost giant that stands off to the side in your kitchen, day-in day-out, humming along in an effort to preserve some semblance of civilization. Until it's gone, that is.

I mean, we really do go about our business everyday, taking our refrigerators for granted. Opening the door and just staring into that white vertical abyss, under the delusion that some new treat may have appeared in the five minutes since our last foray into the gentle giant's belly.

But have someone suddenly tell you the giant's taken its last frosty breath and it's like the world's all askew. Like the entire planet has just stopped spinning completely and the apocalypse is now upon you. You and the remnants of food that require a certain temperature to ward off the possibility of death by that salmon that seems intent on swimming on without your approval or the temperature it requires to prevent an olfactory rebellion.

But alas, I was able to muddle through these last two weeks, only because I like the idea of a back-up, and ours is sitting in our terrace, crammed with all the contents of it's higher-end brother. It's been hell, let me tell you. Going outside several times a day to collect milk, butter, etc... it was like having to go food shopping in my own backyard, and it SUCKED because every time I came inside, I realized I forgot something outside.

So now, the fridge is up and running, sealed off in order to return to its former frigid state. Man oh man, am I looking forward to stocking it again. You know, when I was a kid, I never thought I'd find myself in a position to say I'm actually looking forward to manual labor of any kind. And now, here I am, anxious to all hell to get to it.

The Evil Ice Cream and Its More Evil Makers!

2011-10-31T22:45:00.003-04:00

Okay so, I've been a bad girl! I'll be the first to admit it's not wise to give into the corporate fat-cat lifestyles, but, in my defense, I couldn't help myself. I merely fell prey to the marketing geniuses over at my favorite ice cream company. Ben & Jerry's.

Let me explain.

There I was, minding my own business, just strolling along my domesticated path, when suddenly, I was struck by a wicked sign, purposely posted to taunt the weakest of weak ice cream lovers. It was a buy 1/get 1 free sign for Ben & Jerry's. The absolute BEST ice cream on this planet, and no doubt on any other, if a blind taste test were to be conducted.

So, I bought into the marketing scheme and nabbed 4 pints (Red Velvet Cake, Pistachio, Imagine World Peace...and the king of all flavors to date: Pumpkin Cheesecake).

Yup. I did it. Much to the protest of my thighs and that part of my brain with which my thighs are in a perpetual state of conflict.

Well. Let me tell you. One taste of all four flavors and I could almost feel the shackles of guilt take me over. Like a prisoner waiting to be taken away to some dark, depressing hole in the wall that would make the worst of the worst cry like a baby, I was a goner. Moaning and groaning my way through bite after bite of that creamy, delicious artery-clogging affair that comes wrapped in a beautifully-inviting little container.

So yeah, I dabbed. Sue me. I had to. Not by choice, mind you. Don't forget, it was Ben & Jerry calling. The very best! Pumpkin Cheesecake is their newest contribution to the helpless, sweet-toothed folks out there. Okay, I mean me. And what's worse, those devious marketing geniuses over there branded it as a "limited batch". Those evil thigh haters! Pumpkin Cheesecake. OMG! If you haven't tried it yet, do it now, before they take it away to where all things yummy go: Fond Memory Land. Oh, and if your thighs start to complain and your jeans start begging for mercy, don't blame me. Blame those evil-do'ers over at Ben and Jerry!

Now get tasting. You'll thank me, I promise. Your thighs on the other hand...I'm pretty sure they're gonna wanna send me nothing but evil thoughts and wishes.

Happy Halloween.

Oh the webs they weave....

2011-09-27T12:59:00.000-04:00

Okay so, there I am, minding my own business last night, innocently planning a midnight trek to Walgreens for a few needs and wants. So I head outside and what do I see, but a full-on plan of attack by a spider web the size of Texas, spun the spider sitting in the center of his carefully constructed death trap. This spider was so big, I was sure it was a close cousin to the mutation we all know as Spiderman himself.

I mean, this thing seriously looked like it had headed up a meeting with other neighborhood spiders to see how best to utterly block the exit from my own house. I'm not kidding here, the web (beautiful as it was), ran from the top of my roof, down to the two pine trees that border the entrance of my front porch, like the great wall of arachnid. I didn't want to make too much noise by going back into the house, but I had to break up the web or chance being a prisoner in my own home. Held hostage by the ginormous spider that was staring at me like it was fully prepared for a battle of wills.

The only thing I could find was a helpless little snail. "Yes, let's feed the spider," I muttered under my breath. "That'll scare it off." I stared closely at the spider, then threw up my hands in surrender and went back inside to get my husband, the captor of all things I don't like. He brought out a stick and whisked away the web, which clung to the stick as though it had been imbued with the spider's steadfast will of not giving in.

With the web gone and the path clear, I let out a breath of relief, kissed and thanked my husband, and went on my merry way. Low and behold, little did I know that the evil spider was not quite done with me. When I got to the corner of my block, I rolled down my window for a moment, and there it was....another freakin' web....probably an extension of the Texas-sized mammoth.

"How special!"

So, when I got out of the car at Walgreens, what did I wind up doing, but walking right into the web. Needless to say, the other night-trekkers to Walgreens that dotted the parking lot got a live midnight showing of Watch That Fool Dance! And I was the star. Wriggling and wrangling my way...or trying to...out of the clutches of the web that refused to let me go.

Now, I love animals, and I'm that proverbial, "I couldn't hurt a fly," person. But come on! I never signed up to be a fixture on a web, spun by a spider that did his bidding to ensnare us helpless humans. No sir!

So, after five minutes of an infinitely embarrassing, audience-filled, web-be-gone dance, I finally got it off me and went inside the store, head held down in absolute mortification and a total sense of eyes narrowing in on me like I was the star of a freak show.

Spiders be warned. You're now on my list of enemies!

Don't Hate Me For Hating You

2011-09-25T03:45:00.001-04:00

Okay so, there I am, minding my own business one day, just going through Directv's guide of daily distractions, when I come upon something called H8Rs (You Have to See it to Believe it). Now, in this era of lazy restructuring of the English language (along the lines of LOL and OMGIJPMWL (Oh my god, I just pissed myself with laughter), I felt compelled to see what new form of abbreviation made it to prime time television. Turns out, H8Rs is a new reality show about regular people who, after extensively reading those irrefutably-reliable sources of truth that we call tabloids, have concluded that they hate certain celebrities.

The curious kitten in me couldn't help but record the show to see what all the hate was about. Well, needless to say, the first episode left my jaw on the floor, my eyes bulging in a this-has-to-be-a-joke sort of way, and my mind scrambling for some sense of understanding as to why any celebrity would ever agree to appear on this show, or, for that matter, why these haters haven't yet found something better to do with their time than sit around hating someone they don't know, based on what the media gossip-whores have deemed news-worthy information. You know, like how short Brittany Spears skirt was at one point, or how J-LO almost cut off all her hair and ran through the streets after discovering she wasn't the end all-be all of the entertainment world. You know, the news.

The premise of the show is essentially this: Mario Lopez and his dimples appear with the celebrity who's been spotlighted enough to apparently warrant actual hatred in the eyes of "regular people". And they listen to said haters as the haters moan and groan their way down their rationally-constructed list of I-hate-so-and-so-for-this-and-that-reason. Then, the celebrity confronts the hater to inquire about the hatred and to then spend some time convincing these haters to look beyond the tabloid gossip and like the celebrity for who they are.

The first episode of H8Rs was an hour long, and took me and my hubby about 2 hours to watch because of the constant pausing for fascinating and ultimately hilarious give-me-a-break infused discussions. Episode 1 involved a total loser that hated Snooki (Jersey Shore) and some girl who hated the Bachelor guy. I won't go into how mentally defeated both those haters were. Well, I just saw the second episode last night, and I gotta say, ".....to the H8Rs of Eva Longoria and Scott Disick (from the Kardashians) (and anyone else you haters don't personally know, in fact)....GET OVER YOURSELVES!"

First off, Scott's hater was a girl with a chip on her shoulder so big that I was sure she'd topple over; though to be honest, it might have been her glaring I'm-not-a-celebrity-therefore-I'm-a-better-person-than-you attitude that stems from hunchback of hatred syndrome, which she was clearly born with. This girl repeatedly called Scott Disick "the ultimate douche" because he (and I quote, because honestly, I couldn't make this up...well, I could, but only at the risk of sounding like a complete moron), "He has never done manual labor like regular people."

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!

Is she actually under the belief (or self-delusion) that the only jobs regular people hold involve manual labor? This girl criticized Scott's Lamborghini, then, after spending some time with him (bowling and telling him to prove himself worthy of her presence, by scraping gum off bowling shoes), she decided she wanted to drive the very car that, earlier, she called unimpressive and disrespectful to people who can't afford one; not a direct quote, but a fraternal twin to her underlying implication, mind you. She actually went on and on about how Scott was a bad person and deserved to be hated by her because he's never held, what she called over and over, "a real job. And this knowledge comes from where now? Her lifelong probe into his private life?

And then there was the hater of Eva Longoria. Or should I say, the hater of her weight. He was this guy who criticized her for not being Latin enough, and for having a small ass. And THIS is something to hate someone for? Really? So, after spending some time making tacos and hearing directly from her, he found that...surprise surprise, the tabloids aren't the truth-mongers he, in his early-twenties-long life-experience, believed them to be.

I have to wonder, why do these celebrities even give a rat's hairy ass who hates them or why, when clearly these haters are of no importance in the celebrities lives? These celebrities have far better things to do with their time than to pander to these pathetically-jealous people that hate them for being in the spotlight on a daily basis. Personally, the one I tip my hat to is Scott Disick, who put it best when he said (at the end of his excruciating time with his hater), that he had better things to do than sit around worrying about this girl and her ridiculous reasons for hating him, and that he refused to dip to her level of existence (again, not a direct quote, but honestly, close enough).

Now, to all those "regular people".....GET...A...LIFE! If it's not someone you know or have personal contact with, leave them alone. Stop publicly insulting these celebrities (or anyone else for that matter), because in the end, all you're doing is making yourselves look exactly (and even worse, in fact) than the people you're openly bashing. Not to mention, in these perilous cyber-bullying times, is that really what you want to look back on your life and see yourself as? A Cyber-Bully? That's not to say that these celebrities are in danger of leaping to their deaths because someone doesn't like them. But still. You know, I can't imagine that the girl who hates Scott Disick will ever look back at her 2-seconds of "fame" and smile proudly over her ultra-informed views of Scott and her appeal to the side of him that, in her self-absorbed and self-important opinion, should be ashamed for her not liking him. And that goes for anyone else who hates someone.

So there it is. My take on a show that is downright laughable and utterly ridiculous. Or should I say, the bottom of the barrel of t.v. show ideas.

Have a good one, and for Pete's sake, don't hate. It's such a strong and ugly word. And in these crappy-ass times, hate is about the last thing we need amid all the lies, betrayal and corruption we see every time we blink.

Three Little Cities

2011-08-19T14:34:00.002-04:00

My hubby and I love to travel, and we've done so quite extensively. We haven't been on vacation since 2004, however. That was when we flew to Maine, rented a car, and drove through a HUGE chunk of New England. It was near the end of October and Halloween was nipping at our heels like a puppy begging for attention. We stayed here and there, and loved every minute of it. We even went to Salem, Mass on Oct 31, which was amazing.

If you haven't gone to Salem on Halloween, I highly recommend you try at least once in your life. The weather was great. The place was gorgeous. The people were friendly. The drive was fantastic. Oh, and did I mention the weather? This is an extremely important part of the journey, mind you. You'll understand in a moment or several. So there we were, beaten down by the everyday chores that come with being adults. You know, that horrible thing called responsibilities. Plus, with it being so long since that '04 trip, we knew that another vacation was well overdo. Well, now that we're back from this latest one (we got back Aug 3, 11), I have to report, unlike every other vaca we've taken in the past, this time, there were a few bumps along the way.

Hold on. Did I say bumps? I meant FREAKIN' ROAD BLOCKS! Seriously, it was like a cacophony of voices rising from the belly of the universe, all of them shouting as one, "DID YOU HONESTLY THINK THIS WAS GOING TO BE LIKE YOUR OTHER VACATIONS, Cindy?". Of course that was followed by a resounding and quite sinister laugh that reached into my gut and held on for dear life, while we stood there, helpless, wondering why oh why were being punished in such a way.

Clearly, in order to fully appreciate this calamity that left us feeling like the stars of a satirical show about Murphy's Law, let me take a step back for a moment.

See, it all began when my mother in law wanted to go to the Dominican Republic for a week and lay out on the beach, doing nothing but basking in the sun with a margarita and a hat big enough to smuggle a small town across the border.

Now, as most of you might have guessed by my picture, I'm not exactly the poster child for fun in the sun, and neither is my hubby. Nope, we're both whiter than Casper's ghostly butt, and with good reason. The sun sucks! It's hot, it's bright, and it causes vast amounts of regret in the form of burns, blisters and an unnatural kinship with lobsters.

Needless to say, the plans changed. No beaches for us, no sir. We wanted adventure, excitement, cities. A major break from Miami Lakes, our monotonous suburban prison. We had always wanted to go to Washington D.C., Philadelphia, and ever since our first trip to NYC, we were desperate to go back there. So, we said, why not go to all three? And that was that. I spent two weeks squealing, looking at hotels, squealing some more, researching DC and Philly (didn't need to for NYC), and booking hotels in all three cities, plus a hotel in Upstate NY as well.

It was going to be an AMAZING trip!

And then, as the news report broke one day, a few before our departure, we stood there, horrified as the reporters informed us of a heat wave that has just rolled in and taken over a big part of the Northeast like a sadistic Dominatrix. Namely, DC, Philly, and NYC, among others. Yup, in a twist of irony, that fickle b***h, every city we were planning on going to had all been taken hostage, with record breaking highs and mounting heat-related deaths.

"Hopefully, it'll pass before we get there," my hubby said to me, with a look in his eye that told me he didn't buy it for a second.

And so we held our breaths and crossed our fingers. Hell, in ritualistic animal sacrifice fashion, we were tempted to offer up an ant of two to the sun gods, praying for a break in its evil plan. It goes without saying that the day we arrived in DC, it was over a hundred degrees and rising.

We flew Jetblue Airways, a great company that offered comfy seats and unlimited snacks, unlike other companies that operate under the belief that this world is dominated by 2-foot tall humans with no legs and no need for that thing called comfort. But, don't be fooled as I was by Jetblue's promise of unlimited snacks, as their idea of unlimited snacks comes in the form of the flight attendants going up and down the aisle asking every person what they want from the basket of 5 options of teensy gesture packets of chips and cookies, which took so long that by the time he came around again, we were landing.

We rented a car from Dollar Rent a Car. It was a Grand Marquis, and let me tell you, what a piece of crap that car was! And the company! I'll never rent from them again! I returned the car two hours later, and went to the Reagan Airport to get another one from a different company. We wanted a van, so naturally, not a single company had one. We wound up with a Camry, which I LOVE, and we were off....after four hours, that is! Two hours after that, we made it to the hotel, which was a few miles away from the airport. Yup, we got lost! That was fun. My temper was right up there with the heat index by the time we finally got back.

We stayed in a hotel in breath-taking Alexandria, VA, about five miles outside DC. It was the Hampton Inn Alexandria, and it was amazing. The service, the food, the staff, and the location were all fantastic! Not to mention all the welcome freshly-baked cookies. WooHoo, let the vaca begin.

When we left the hotel the next morning, however, my enthusiasm kinda did this fingers-crossed thing when we saw that it was about 105 degrees, and it was only eight-thirty. By ten in the morning it was clearly still on the rise. But, sun damage be damned! We had six days there, and we were on a mission to take on DC, hoping to get a glimpse of the touristy things our nation's famous for. You know, those hot spots for corruption, pocket-lining, lies, betrayal and a slew of illegal activities that run our country into the ground on a daily basis.

Now, in order to full enjoy this visit to DC, I wanted to make sure I had plenty of energy during the vaca, so I took a mountain of those little 5-hr energy drinks with us. Well, the day we went to tour the Capitol, we were told no drinks or liquids were permitted in the building. So, on the heels of downing one of the drinks a hour before, my hubby and I each had to consume two more, because I had brought four with me for the day. That was fun. We zipped through that short, uninspiring, and ultimately lack-luster tour of two rooms that I could have easily seen more of online than in person, all the while, jittery, bouncy and wishing to all hell that the tour-guide himself had taken a shot of that little bottle of energetic gold.

Let me just say one thing about DC. It is undoubtedly gorgeous. But, that said, it is NOT a touristy place. Everything is closed to the public. The Washington Monument is like a a giant spike in the ground. The Lincoln Memorial looks like he's wondering why all these people at gathering at his marble feet with cameras. And the White House was nothing more than a little white spec on an ocean of grass. All I could think was, "THAT's it?"

Then there's the fact that in DC, everything is a mile from everything else, so though it's called a walking town, those who call it that are not referring to a nice place to walk. No, walking is mandatory because of the lack of parking, the amount of people and the distance between entrances to place and the places themselves. Can you imagine how much fun that was in 108+ degree weather with no sign of impending cloud cover to protect us from the evil sun?

To sum up our stay in DC, sadly, two days into our 12-night journey, I must have eaten something that insisted it become a souvenir, as my feet and ankles swelled up like sausages, hurt like freakin hell, made walking a lot more "interesting" and took my left knee along for the ride, as it swelled it too. Add in sweltering heat, an ungodly lumpy bed in our hotel room, a severe lack of sleep and throw in miles and miles of attractions no on can get anywhere near because of security measures and you have...DC. Fun times!

Six days later, we left the DC area and drove to Philly, where we stayed for two nights. Philly was also gorgeous, but again, hot as hell. Not as hot as DC, mind you, but still hot enough to cook on egg on the pavement, which some reporter was kind enough to demonstrate for his viewers. But I swear it was like he was looking right at me through the microscopic flat panel tv-like thing in our hotel room. We stayed at a Wingate Hotel, and this time, the food in the hotel was atrocious, and the service was cold, unlike the friendly service at the previous hotel.

One of the coolest things we saw…don’t you dare laugh…was a employee of the PPA, the Philadelphia Parking Authority. Nerd alert, I know. But see, you have to understand this in context. I’d been watching a marathon (all 59 episodes) of Parking Wars, which I loved! So it was cool to see one of the folks from the show there, walking about like on the show, giving out parking tickets, like on the show. Hey, I’m easy to please, you know.

Anyhoo, during our stay in Philly, I wanted to go to Lancaster, to see Amish Country.

It took forever to get there, and when we did, it was stunning! Fields of farms and rolling hills, and land and mountains, and just breathtaking views everywhere. But, after a few hours of it, I was done. I was in search of civilization, and it took forever and a week to find our way out of Lancaster. I swear, every time I saw another farm, I wanted to scream, “Someone, PLEASE, show me the way out of here!” We managed to get back to the hotel, with no help from any gas station, as it seems that little thing called a map can now only be found at a travel museum.

When we left Philly, we drove to Upstate New York, to a place called Tarrytown, near White Plains, and two hiccups away from Sleepy Hollow.

That was WOW! The hotel was on a mountain that overlooked other mountains, and it was STUNNING! There was a fireplace in the breakfast area, friendly service, and the food was good. The bed was comfy, with those mega-soft hotel sheets I love. The towns there were amazing. Oh, and it rained. Can’t have one thing NOT go wrong in every one of the cities we were going to, no sir.

Our next stop was our dream town: NYC. Manhattan, Baby. We stayed in the Best Western Bowery Hanbee Hotel in Chinatown. It was really great. Though, when we got there, we noticed it was a little hot in the room, so we informed the staff, who promised it would be corrected by morning. Well, in the morning, they came to our room to tell us that they were upgrading us to a King Suite, so the repairs wouldn’t disturb us. The new room was AWESOME! It had a living area, a dining table, two tv’s with remotes that never worked, a massive bed with soft sheets, and a great view. LOVED IT!

Chinatown was “interesting”. Smelled like fish and garbage, but hey, it made for great memories. It was hotter there than in DC, by the way, and the heat wave seemed insistent on vacationing with us, as we learned that it would be breaking by the day we were to leave. We stayed in NYC for four nights and five days. I have to say, it wasn't exactly the same experience as our last trip to NYC. Nope. Last time, the city was clean, the subways were clean and working and the place was crawling with street performers.

This time, though, every thing was filthy, half the subways in the city with one of the best transit systems, were closed, which made every jaunt from place to place take hours longer, as we had to keep transferring from train to train, and it seemed not a single New Yorker ever knew which one we had to take to get here or there. Again. buckets of fun and time spent in the now-smelly, hot and beyond-filthy subways, going up and down the stairs, adding to the sweat-infused air of urban travel.

While in the city, we took a double decker tour with the Greyline Bus, where it turned out, I had family working. They hooked us up with free tickets on all the bus tours there. I was dying to see my family, but, as our good luck kept following us, when we went to the Wax Museum in Times Square, I twisted my already-bad knee, and limped the rest of our stay in my favorite city in the world. I felt horrible about not being able to see my cousins, but they understood. Thank you Cathy and Sergio. The night before we came back, we took the night tour of NYC. OMG! If you ever go, take that tour! It takes you across the bridge into Brooklyn, and you see ALL of Manhattan reflecting off the water. It was like being in a screensaver.

So that’s it. We were gone for 12 nights and 13 days. We went to DC, Philly, Upstate NY, Lancaster, oh, and we went to Baltimore (how could I forget), Virginia, and NYC. It was an exhausting trip, fraught with swollen feet, even more swollen ankles, a twisted and swollen knee, blistering heat, a constant need for directions, closed subways, a million stairs to and from working subways, the smell of fish and garbage right outside our hotel in Chinatown, bad food, good food, lumpy beds, a lack of sleep, a crappy car, a great car, gesture-snacks on the flights. But, you know what, despite all those bumps in the road, we had a great time. It was a little like life, in a way. You can make your plans and hope for the best, but in the end, who knows what’ll actually happen, and the truth is, the unplanned can sometimes be more memorable than the planned path ahead.

I will say this, I was dying to get back, and when we did, it felt like we’d been gone for years. It was so strange. It was like we were in a stranger’s home. It never looked more beautiful. It never felt so comfortable. And it never felt better to be back. I guess it’s true what some say. The best part of a vacation is coming home. And this time, it was.

AMERICA'S CURE

2011-08-12T10:13:00.000-04:00

First let me start with a link to a news report I read today that infuriated me, as it should YOU and every other American out there who cares about the state and health of this country.

SPECIAL INTERESTS GAVE MILLIONS TO BUDGET PANEL

Okay so, I follow politics quite a bit, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm not even close to considering myself a political expert. That said, certain things DO NOT need an expert eye to solve a problem that has destroyed our country. Especially since those SADISTIC, SELF-CENTERED, A**HOLES "BUSH and CHENEY" raped our country of its wealth, good name, good standing, and reputation.

And the worst part is that they got away with:
>MURDER
>CORRUPTION
>BREAKING COUNTLESS LAWS THIS COUNTRY WAS FOUNDED ON
>LINING THE POCKETS OF THEIR WEALTHY CORPORATE FRIENDS
>and OUTRIGHT SPITTING IN THE FACE OF EVERYTHING THAT ONCE MADE THIS COUNTRY WHAT IT ONCE STOOD FOR.

But don't get me started on those bastards! Every time I think of how they've destroyed this country and got off scott free, it pisses me off like only one other topic can. A topic I won't even bother to mention.

Now, on to what this country really needs in order to pick itself up. I'm sure a lot of people may disagree with some or part of this list, but the fact is, it WOULD help this country.

1. Legalize Marijuana. I'm not saying everyone should go out and get high. Now, I know a lot of people are against this idea of legalizing this drug because they live under the belief that doing so would give kids a green light to light up. But, the fact is, they are doing it anyway, and so are a lot of other people. In fact, in all likelihood, at least one person YOU KNOW has probably either tried it or is a current user. This is not addictive, this drug. Do a little research and you'll find that not only is it harmless, it actually helps a lot of people with pain, lack of appetite and sickness. Then there's the fact the legalizing it would SEVERELY decrease the prison population by eliminating those charged with marijuana-related issues. Add to that, TAXING it, like they do with cigarettes, and the amount of money this country would see roll in would solve every fiscal problem in one shot. The fact is, alcohol and cigarettes are legal, and THOSE are in a universe all their own, in terms of harm they cause. So why make illegal the one drug that harmless.

2. Make OUTSOURCING Ilegal. This has cost this country MILLIONS of jobs. Stop listening to what they politicians want you to hear, and start listening to the facts. Immigrants are NOT taking American jobs. Corporate sugar daddies are, with the go-ahead from their political whores. Outsourcing is when Corporations fire thousands of people in one day, and train other countries to do the same jobs for a teensy fraction of what Americans were being paid to do. And all so these fat cats can get fatter, and then sit around and whine about how they are not BIG BUSINESS, but more "THE JOB CREATORS" and shouldn't pay taxes. Which makes them even fatter, and with more money comes more clout, and with more clout comes more political bribery that keeps America in the trenches. You can't possibly be okay with this, can you?

3. Make LOBBYING illegal. Here again, big business rears its greedy head. These are the people who "convince" the politicians that doing the Corporations' evil, self-serving business is a good idea and "HERE, WE'LL EVEN LINE YOUR POCKETS TO DO THIS FOR US". This includes every industry out there, from Medical and Food, to Tobacco and Oil. Business has (no pun intended) no business in politics, and frankly, the fact that this act is permitted to exist is a complete slap in the face of those who fought and died for our independence. And here this country sits, idle while Corporations and those tied to them, including politicians, rape this nation and its people of every drop of blood, and turn around to tell us, "DON'T WORRY. THIS IS A GOOD THING."

4. REAL Separation of Church and State. The fact that this is how we doing things now is a complete and utter myth, no matter what people believe. We see it every time an election rolls around. One of the first questions asked in every debate or public appearance made by a politician is, "What Religion Do You Practice?" or "Are you a person of faith?" WHO THE HELL CARES! We're not electing priests or Rabbis here! We're not trying to forge a path to heaven with these elections! We're voting on who's going to fight and speak for us with regards to this country needs. Religion is a personal matter that should be kept as just that. Personal! It has no place dictating the lives of every single person through a conduit of some a**hole who convinces people that he or she is the perfect (and only) person for the job. Look at BUSH. He's a Christian. One who was very public about how god told him to do certain things. Now...Anyone wanna stand up here and say HE was a great choice because of his faith?

I'm not going to list any more because the fact is, there are so many problems in this country. But, the resolution has to begin somewhere, and in my opinion, it has to start with the people. You. People need to speak out. They need to let these politicians know that they're only there because WE put them them and we can take them OUT if they DON'T do the jobs they promised they'd do to help heal this country.

Not taking the wealthy is NEVER a good thing, especially when those who don't fall into that 1% are being taxed for everything, short of breathing. Letting them send jobs overseas has MURDERED this country's job market, and they call themselves job makers. Yeah, for other countries. And please, keep your faith to yourself and out of Washington.

Wake up AMERICA and speak for the nation that gave you freedom. Freedoms that are being stolen everyday. Speak up for the country that was once great. Our founding fathers fought for us. Now it's our turn to fight for what they stood for.

Doomsday? On May 21, 2011? Still waiting....

2011-05-21T12:03:00.006-04:00

Okay so, where's the fire? Where are the world-ending earthquakes predicted by the Bible, which guaranteed the end would come this morning at 6:00 a.m.? I wonder what those who believed so whole-heartedly in this "fact" have to say now that it's currently nearly six hours passed their death-time.

I'm sorry, but this idea that that these people actually believed it so deeply that they up and sold all their worldly possessions, and sat around waiting for the so-called rapture that would take them to wherever is really sad. Some went as far as spending their life savings because of this "concrete prediction".

I'm just wondering what the man who started this all has to say now. I suppose it'll be something akin to whatever he said back in 1994 (I believe it was) when he predicted THAT was the end of the world and it didn't happen.

Oh well. With all the hoopla bouncing around the Net about the end of the world being this morning, I'm looking forward to seeing what new Tweets erupt on the TWITTER board. As of late, I've seen things like Rapture Confessions and What if the World Ended.

I just started a Tweet to see what people regret the most about their preparations for the Rapture that missed it's appointment.

C. L. Freire on Twitter

Hold onto your butts, people! DOOMSDAY has been announced!

2011-05-20T13:31:00.003-04:00

Okay so, there I am, enjoying my breakfast, when my hubby comes in and tells me he just heard something on the news that would "literally" shake this world off it's butt! Ready for it?

Apparently, some religious guy (possibly groups of them) have laid claimed to what they call "the fact" that, according to the bible, the "always-reliable source of absolute truth" says the world will end on May 21, 2011, at 6:00 am.

Needless to say, I almost dropped my coffee. Not out of horror, but out of an absolute need to preserve the cleanliness of my floor. The last thing I wanted was to have to follow that news update with a meeting between me and a roll of Bounty, the quicker picker upper.

So, we're all going to die a horrible, bible-guaranteed death. And this is how the believers are dealing with it...

Supposedly, there will be earthquakes, and death and loss, Oh my! Now, is that Eastern Stand Time, because I think I still have time to catch a flight to, oh wait, NOWHERE, if the entire world is ending!

Come on, people! Really?

First off, if this were remotely true, why are these bible thumpers bringing it to our attention now, huh? Did they just find that little nugget in their golden pages, or were they keeping it to themselves?

Then there's the issue of how they're dealing with it. They've sold they possessions, packed up and taken to the open road. Yeah, because the open road is where I wanna be when the earth is supposed to crack wide open for a nice juicy helping of sinners who blinked during that part of the page of the bible that forewarned them of the impending doomsday.

And lastly, the world can not end! I have a Geek Squad guy coming this Tuesday to fix my television, and I refuse to miss that appointment just because of a little thing like the end of the world!

I'm just curious...what are these brain-banks who are so adamant about this bible prediction gonna do when 6:01am rolls around tomorrow and we're not all dead? Oh wait, my mistake. They'll just say God was what, distracted by his holy McMuffin at the time and decided to wait til his food went down before he kills us all? Or will they simply pass it off as God's magnanimous (and temporary) stay of execution for his little minions?

Well, I guess we'll know soon enough, now won't we.

See you all at 6:01am tomorrow morning.

I Can Breathe Again...thank you Zoey

2011-01-12T12:12:00.000-05:00

So, as I mentioned in a previous post, I'm working on a new project. When I first came to terms with the idea of shelving David Thorne for now, I was a bit iffy about it; after all the time, blood, sweat and tears that went into putting together this book, I felt like I was turning my back on myself, and it hurt.

But, as I've always said, for me writing is like breathing. I have to do it, and in trying to get DT out there through the ever-fun-and always-eventful process of querying, I've lost my way and forgot to breathe.

Well, recently, I've been hard at work on this new project, a YA paranormal series, and for the first time since I finished writing DT, the wheels of my imagination are once again on the move, and it feels fantastic! I'd forgotten how good this feels. I'd forgotten how amazing it is to be driving somewhere, or lingering in a hot shower as new and exciting ideas ran through my mind. I'd forgotten what it's like to be anxious to get back to the keyboard and start pounding out the stories of characters that existed only in my head.

I'm sure every writer goes through this--whether once or every time they finish a book--and they spend more time trying to get it out there than they do working on a new book. Though you hear all the time that a write should always be writing, I think it's more of a personal decision how a writer goes about bringing their ideas to life. But in the end, regardless what others say writers should do, or how they should do it, it's a lesson I think every writer should ultimately learn on their own.

As for this new book, it's so funny because ever since I finished DT, I've had so many ideas, but for some reason none have stuck, and I couldn't understand why; they were--and are--all so great, as far as ideas are concerned. But none were leaving me in a state of perpetual thought and obsession, which is what I felt during the writing and creating of DT (and the entire series that followed it). But now, I'm here again, feeling my mind wandering to this new book, getting distracted, forgetting to do things, all because this is the story I've been waiting for ever since DT was first completed. And it feels incredible.

So to all writers out there who, at some point, find themselves stuck, or to those who find they've lost their way and have paid more time trying to get their work out there than they have actually writing, I say, just stop for a moment and breathe. If it's truly in your blood, you'll find yourself again, and when you do, you'll remember what it's like to be alive.

Censoring the voice of Mark Twain

2011-01-04T15:47:00.002-05:00

I just read an article over at Publisher's Weekly, and it turned my stomach.

Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Called a masterpiece by T.S. Eliot, and pronounced by Ernest Hemingway, the source of "all modern American literature."

Yet, for decades, it's been disappearing from grade school curricula across the country, or flat-out banned, appearing again and again on lists of the nation's most challenged books, and all for its repeated use of a single, singularly offensive word. The "n" word.

Get this! Apparently, one Mr. Alan Gribben, and NewSouth Books are going to release a version of the book with "slave" in place of the "n-word". You know, might I point out, that fickle little b***H called irony. Our choices here are what? Allow these books to be banned? Or outright replace "slave" so as not to offend people, all just to appease these groups of ignorant zealots, when either act makes those who don't stand against it the very thing, the very word, said groups have deemed censor-worthy: Slaves. Slaves to their beliefs.

Now, I understand they want to prevent the conservative pratts from banning these books from schools; I get that, I really do, so truly, their intentions are good. But, that said, the fact is, no one, and I mean, no one--and yes, I'm talking to the nosey-bodies who want to control our lives--has the right to tell us what we can and can not see, hear, read, do or think! Last time I checked we were individuals. It should be up to parents to decide what their kids should be able to read, and frankly, only someone from the cess pool of zealots would stand in favor of these ignorant censor-bullies denying people their freedom for the beliefs of others.

You can read the article HERE

Why is it so many people feel they have the right to decide what we should and shouldn't be reading. Yes, the "n" word is offensive, absolutely! But, the fact is, it was a reflection and commentary on the times, and changing it is nothing more than a blatant slap in the face of Mark Twain's point.

The cold hard truth is that when the floodgates of censorship are allowed to break thru, there's no stopping it. Somewhere along the line, we've become a society of kids playing in the sandbox, crying about the people who've "hurt our feelings", at which time someone stands up, slaps the offender on the hand and scolds them with a resounding "you can't do/say that!"

Check out the article for yourself.

Note, even the amazing R. L. Stine commented on the controversy, writing, "How idiotic to change a classic of American literature for a word usage that can be explained to young readers. Simply moronic. I find it deeply offensive."

I couldn't agree more.

The Ultimate "How-Is-This-Legal" Pill

2010-12-27T23:25:00.005-05:00

You know, about a month ago (give or take), my hubby showed me a commercial that left me utterly stunned. When he first started playing it (it was during a recorded show), my mind sort of wandered as a beautiful butterfly made its way across my t.v screen, as though lulling me into a sort of daze-like state. But, at hearing the words "without remembering it", I immediately snapped out of it and asked my hubby to "Play it again, Sam", only not so much a Bogart way, but in more of an "excuse me, WHAT" way.

And so, he did. And I almost fell over; though I'm not sure whether it was shock or laughter that threw me for a loop.

I won't name the drug here, but the commercial features a woman trying to fall asleep as a butterfly flies around pulling boxing ring ropes down, and when you see it, you'll think of me.

I's a sleeping pill, prescribed to those with trouble falling and/or staying asleep. I don't know how many of you actually listen to the fast-talking portions of prescription drug commercials (or read the tiny print on screen), but I do, and it's clear the makers of this "magic" pill took their account to the right advertising agency, which in turn, came up with the only way to seduce an unsuspecting consumer into "talking to their doctor to find out if it's right for them." They distract the potential victims from hearing the side effects by showing them said butterfly fluttering about as soothing music plays in the background.

See, with the promise of "much-needed sleep" comes the warning that some people have reported making and eating food, talking on the phone, having sex, sleep-walking, and finally, the ubber exciting, ever-memorable act of SLEEP-DRIVING, and having no memory of it the next day.

And we're back to "EXCUSE ME, WHAT????"

How is it possible that a drug like this is on the market? How did this ever get past the FDA? I mean, the website and the commercials even go as far as "explaining" that they have no idea how the drug works, but that it's thought to affect the brain a certain way in order to help you fall asleep. Oh, and I forgot to mention another thing (don't know how it escaped me, this little nugget of gold): apparently, if you have a history of depression, suicide MAY occur, as it also produces abnormal thoughts and behavior, such as aggressiveness, confusion, hallucinations, and the aforementioned possibility of taking your own life, as well as other side effects.

The other day, I was watching Gene Simmons: Family Jewels, and Shannon Tweed couldn't sleep b/c Gene was snoring, so for weeks she'd been taking a sleeping pill. All the while, she noticed she'd been gaining weight, and the kids had been leaving an unusual amount of food laying around at night. So she checked her security footage, and found that she'd been eating and cooking in her sleep, with no memory of any of it. Clearly they bleeped out the name of the pill she was on, but is anyone seriously doubting which one she was on?

I'm sorry, but I think I'd rather take my chances with falling asleep naturally (however difficult), over taking a drug that "may or may not" make me want to kill myself. With my luck, my attempt would fail anyway, leaving me to eat the fridge. But hey, in reaching for that proverbial silver lining, at least I wouldn't remember any of it in the morning...

And the author writes

2010-12-22T03:51:00.010-05:00

One of my favorite quotes on writing, haunting though it may be (at least to me) refers to how--from an author's standpoint--books are never finished, they are merely abandoned.

Back in 2003, when I started working on my middle grade fantasy series, DAVID THORNE, I couldn't have disagreed more; I insisted I could never be that writer who abandons her work before feeling it was just the way I wanted it. I later came to truly understand the full meaning of that quote...that we as authors must learn when to walk away and move on to another story, lest we find ourselves at the end of our lives, with the knowledge that we wrote "a book", instead of many.

In the time since I first started David Thorne, I've shaken hands with a slew of new characters and written my fair share of synopsis' for their stories; stories that, in time, I'm determined to write, one way or another.

But first I wanted to focus on David Thorne, my great teacher. And in my years-long dance with the big D, Ive rewritten this book several times and edited it about a million; not to mention all the times I've thought about doing it again every time I was struck with little changes that would undoubtedly make it all the better as an opening book in the series. I mean, considering the world I created for him to discover, I couldn't very well just say, "Welcome to Elder City, David. Enjoy." No, I had to show him all the wonders this magical city had to offer; and I did. And all the while, that little author on my shoulder kept reminding me to keep my eye on the road ahead and know when it was time to walk away, if only temporarily.

Therefore, I have decided to shelve David Thorne for now. It's not dead, I assure you. It's just that I've come to realize that it's simply not the right time for it to get out. I've been rejected more than I'd like to admit (I'm not strong enough to confess such a horrid number), be it because of poorly written query letters or perhaps just bad timing with agents I've queried; apparently, you have to catch agents on a certain day and time when they happen to be in the mood for the kind of books you write...not my words, btw; I read that somewhere.

That said, this author has no ill feelings towards those agents who've turned it down (and I do mean turned "it" down, not me....it's not usually personal when agents make such decisions about authors they don't know). Part of me is glad David Thorne is taking a rest. Sure, it's a strong story, gritty, edgy, strong characters and dialogue, as well as action, mystery and humor (clearly I'm not at all biased here), but, it was my first novel (sort of my second, in reality), and it was my greatest experience in the art of learning to write and learning to breathe life into the passion that has driven me since I was a kid.

It was also my hubby who was my greatest teacher. Never have I met someone as creative and intelligent, and so freakin' good at this, it's frightening! He's always been there to catch flaws in the story, conflicts, weak points, and areas that could use some touch-ups. He IS my writing group, and I honestly can't thank him enough. I know when he reads this, he'll blush and smile...so Honey, thank you.

The point is, writing that book was a major learning experience, so I have no regrets about it not having found a home yet; and I say yet, because I intend to try and bring this book out one day. Through David Thorne, I learned more than I ever imagined possible, and if someone had told me I would feel this way after all this time, and all my hard work, and all my efforts to grab the attention of an agent (two have requested partials, btw), I never would have believed them.

But here I am. Ready to move onto something new. The new series I'm working on will be a YA paranormal trilogy about a 16 year old girl named Max. Interestingly enough, both agents who requested partials on DT suggested I try first person narrative, but seeing as I how I'm not about to start from scratch with a book I took so many years getting the way I wanted it to be, I've decided to do this new series from the POV of Max. She's a feisty, sarcastic heroine that I can't wait to bring to life.

So there it is...the latest on the writing in this author's life. I'll post a sample when I'm ready. In the meantime, to all struggling authors out there, I say, keep pushing on, for perseverance is our greatest gift, and on the back of our hard work, our personal success will be our great reward.

Peace out. Now get back to work!

The Honest Truth....My Querying Nightmare

2010-12-08T22:41:00.006-05:00

I just read through a great blog over at Don't Pet Me, I'm Writing. It's the blog of author, Tawna Fenske. Her latest post about Writing Regrets was amazing. It got me thinking about my own path as a writer.

I've read a lot of blogs by authors who, understandably, choose not to make public, their road to success, or should I say, the bumpy path of rejection that led them there. As I said, I understand. Being as public as we are now-a-days, what with blogs and social networking, it's really hard to expose our weaknesses and our self-doubt, much less, our failures along the way. It's a vulnerable position not many people ever want to put themselves in.

But you see, I think it's actually so brave for anyone to do this, and it helps so many in the same position.

Tawna's blog post about writing regrets was so helpful. It really made me stop and look at myself in the deepest possible way a writer can.

See, here's the skinny: I started writing THORNE (a middle-grade, urban fantasy...the first in a series), and believe me when I say this book went through some changes along the way; initially, it was a lot longer, until I discovered it was too long for MG, and so, I thought about it for a couple of weeks, and decided to take a chapter out of the book, and write an entirely new book around it; it became the first in my series, and what was left of the original became book 2, and it worked out amazingly-well.

Ever since then, I've revised it numerous times; recently, I virtually rewrote it in order to tighten it up. I love the end result. So I started sending out queries again. I definitely have my "favorites" list of agents, and a couple still haven't replied yet (according to the websites, they do).

That said, one agent requested a partial, and later rejected it saying that, although she loves the way I write and the story concept was great, she simply wasn't drawn into the 12-yr old protagonist's life enough to offer representation. She suggested I rewrite the book in first-person; she's actually the second agent to make that suggestion. So it makes me wonder if I made the right choice when I first wrote the book.

I've always loved first-person narratives. I love how it allows me to dive into the minds of the characters like no other format can. So, I started trying to rewrite the first book as a narrative from David's POV. It's coming out great, but something in my guy keeps gnawing at me: Could this actually work in first-person? It just doesn't seem to have the same haunting quality as the original, and I'm afraid if I try to bring out the haunting nature of David's inner demons and anger about his situation, it might come off as "woe-is-me". Just the same, I'm going to post part of what I've written in first-person and part of the original; I'd love to get your thoughts on which works best.

QUERIES: I just don't know what else to do. I can't begin to tell you how many websites I've read on queries, agents, agencies, publishers, writing, and all things authory. On the wings of my dream to see my work out there, I've studied more than I even did in school, and that's saying a lot. And yet, every time I query agents, I do it with what I believe to be a new and improved letter, and still, the rejections keep pouring in. Ever since I started this process back in 2004, I've received probably...and here's the part where I leave myself vulnerable to ridicule and speculation...more rejections than I care to count; all based on different letters and different versions of the book's first chapter.

The worst part is, I was almost there once. See, back in 2007, I was approached by a publisher who'd been following my blogs on Myspace, and asked that I send them a partial. Desperate as I was to see my book out there, I pishawed the writer on my should who warned me that publishers don't do this. In the end, they loved it, and asked for more. Then I was told they wanted to publish the book.

Two editors there both commented (apparently) that my book had some of the best dialogue they'd ever read. And that was just the beginning. Sadly, in 2008, a week before the book was to come out, the publisher folded due to the recession, and I was thrust back onto the querying road once again.

I just wish for what every author wishes: the elusive "yes". Until then, I'll keep writing, pushing, and dreaming of the day when that happens.

Cindy

Please tell me why.....

2010-12-07T18:03:00.002-05:00

I would love for someone to tell me why certain people prefer to back into a parking spot, rather than just parking like everyone else. Why is that? I mean, there I am pulling into the parking lot of my local market, and as always, there's a line of cars waiting on this person who had to pull in and pull out, pull back in and pull back out, over and over until that person was satisfied that they were nestled nicely in the spot they would have been settled in half an hour ago had they just pulled in, head-first.

Truly, what are these people trying to accomplish here? The ability to just drive straight out when they're done shopping? Come on. What's the difference? One way, you take a moment to pull and a moment to pull out; the other way, it takes an eon in shopper's-time to back into a spot for the simplicity of pulling straight out. It's not only ridiculous, it's bordering on suggestive....and not in the good way either, but in the, "Are you done yet?" way, and that's never a good thing, is it?

Agent pet peeves, from the author's side of the fence, PART 1

2010-12-04T20:07:00.003-05:00

Okay so, this is going to be a short blog series on literary agents.

Agents. You gotta love em'. They work hard for their clients, they're dedicated, and if you're lucky enough to find the right one, the relationship can be life-long and prosperous. Hopefully not in the Vulcan sense, but more in the cuddly and oh-so-friendly, "I love my agent, and my agent loves me," sense.

That said, this author has a few pet peeves regarding agents, which I have little doubt most authors seeking an agent share to the core. So, let's get started, shall we?

THOSE AGENTS WHO DON'T REPLY: I understand why agents can't respond to all queries. I truly get it. They're busy with their own clients as it is; and what self-respecting author would want their agent more vested in acquiring new clients, than working with the ones they already have. What I don't get is why so many don't take a moment of their time to add a tiny bit of much-needed information to their websites about how long we should wait before realizing agents we've queried (who fall into this no-reply pit) are not interested. I mean, come on. Really? If I were an agent, I would return the respect I ask for. The easiest way to do this is to simply add the following bit of disclosure to the submission guidelines: Unfortunately, do to the volume of submissions we receive, it is not possible to reply to all queries. Therefore, if you have not heard back from us within (so and so) weeks, please assume we are passing on the project.

Now how hard was that? I'm not an agent, and I did it in, what...five seconds?

Ah, but you see, this only works if agents actually take it one teensy step further, by setting up an automated response to acknowledge that queries have been received on their end. Truly, one is useless without the other. If the website claims no response after a certain period of time, then what good does it do us if we don't even know for sure that our emailed submission was ever received? You know, there is this occurrence called "LOST IN TRANSIT". You see, with all the spam filters we're forced to activate to keep out those unscrupulous spiders who prey on our inboxes like savage soul-sucking vampires, when dealing with email, things sometimes get tossed around like unwitting passengers on a chicken-bus riding along on a dirt path-like road in some third-world country that has yet to discover the benefits of gravel.

So, for any agents who might come upon this blog, please, consider the amount of time and hope that goes into researching you and your fellow agents in order to weed out the one that will hopefully find our novels good and loving homes. Consider it from this side of the fence, where we, authors with aspirations of seeing our work out there, stand with our faces pressed to the proverbial glass, desperate to get our foot in the door of a world in which our dreams are rooted. All we ask is that you pass along a little more information.....

Closing Question....I'd like to now hear from those reading this blog. Have you ever submitted to an agent that didn't respond or indicate (in any way on their website) how long you'd have to wait to assume it's a no, and also, did you receive an automated reply to acknowledge your email had been received?

Chapter 1 (Half) - THORNE

2010-12-03T13:53:00.002-05:00

THE DEAD HOUSE

Thorne Manor would now stand abandoned if not for twelve year old David Thorne, the only person living there. He threw a glance back at the house and shuttered; since he could remember, it had always seemed more a monster by the woods than a mansion; a phantom reminder that he was—and would always be—what the former servants called a freak: the boy who couldn’t come anywhere near electricity.

Perched high on the oldest tree in the backyard, he stared out at the world he would never be a part of. The smell of rain carried on the cool summer breeze that blew across his face as he lifted his crystal-blue eyes to the sky over Haven Creek, New York; the clouds were rolling in quickly, announcing the coming of a dark storm.

Knowing the pain it would bring with it, David’s heart began to drum in his ears. Then a flash of white exploded into the sky off in the distance, followed closely by another that broke through the stars, as though warning him to get back.

His eyes drifted from the house, to the sleepy little town, to the sky, shoulders slumping. With a wring of his hands, he let out a huff, then grabbed the sock full of berries he’d collected in the afternoon and shoved it between his teeth; the sock was old, but for the past month, it had played its part well in his survival.

He climbed down to the leafy ground and ran, trying not to think about the long, shadow-filled corridors and empty rooms that awaited him. But what he tried hardest to put out of his mind were the strange things he’d been seeing and hearing as of late; things he was certain any psychiatrist would have had him committed for even talking about.

David raced towards the window he’d left open at the back of the house; anything to avoid having to walk through the front door, as the echo of it closing was too cruel a reminder that the place was dead. The thunder roared behind him when he was about twenty feet from the window. Startled, he tripped over a soft spot in the over-grown grass and fell to the ground, face-first. He rolled over, sat up, and rubbed his ankle. As he made to stand, a rustle of leaves drew his attention forward.

There, not ten paces away, appeared—for the second time in the last few days—a figure in a black cloak, sitting on a red sofa, staring down at, what looked like a photo.

“Not again,” muttered David, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, both the sofa and the figure sitting on it were gone.

The storm screamed out again, bringing David back to the danger at hand. He leaped up and ran to the house, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Without missing a beat, he dove through the window. A cold blast of air rushed past him the instant his feet touched the marble floor. He looked back at the yard where the figure had appeared. It was still gone.

He whipped around at every creak and scrape that sang out of the darkness as he tip-toed into the living room. It was hard to ignore the few remaining pieces of furniture that sat shrouded in dusty sheets. But still, he forced himself to try, as images of things hiding under there just waiting to pounce, fueled his imagination in ways he hated more than the house itself.

Making his way to the once-grand staircase, he came upon the painting-sized mirror that the former servants had failed to cover when they left. Just as he passed by it, he caught a glimpse of the strangely-dressed people he’d seen earlier.

David stopped dead and jerked back to the mirror. The people were still there in the reflection, following the luggage that floated ahead of them as they hurried through, what looked like, a train station. In the blink of an eye, however, they were gone, replaced by a reflection David took no interest in: his own.

He was about to turn away when a long and loud whistle suddenly echoed behind him. He spun around and then back to the mirror just as a cobalt-blue and silver train flew from one end of the reflection to the other, and then vanished.

“That’s it!” he said, backing away.

He sprinted up the stairs, recalling, with each step he took, all the nights he’d spent watching from behind the banister, eyes cast towards the cobweb-covered front door, wondering if at least one of the servants ever thought about the boy they had left to fend for himself within the echo-filled halls of a house big enough to fit several others.

When he reached the second floor landing, a row of small, cobalt-blue flames appeared along each of the walls in the corridor that led to his bedroom. David froze, his eyes lingering on the flickering flames, which floated as though suspended over invisible torches. Then the voices came, flooding the corridor with whispers that blended into a hum he couldn’t make out. And then the kitten’s meow wafted out from under his door.

Suddenly, the light from the blue flames grew brighter, the voices louder, the kitten’s meows more persistent.

Feeling as though his head would explode, David ran to his room. When he grabbed the doorknob, the blue flames died away and the whispers fell silent, as did the kitten. Standing in the darkened corridor, he sighed with relief. And then he heard a man behind him say, “I need to know,” in a voice so sad, David felt a sense of great loss wash over him.

He turned back slowly, but there was no one there, so he opened the door and nudged it inward. Just as he crossed the threshold, a scraping sound whispered out of the darkness, like something being dragged across the wood floor, followed by the shrill scream of a woman and the agonizing wails of a baby in pain.

Heart racing, David sped into the room. He slammed the door, locked it with a frantic hand, and threw his back to it. He pressed an ear to the wood, and although nothing but silence answered back, the feeling that something was wrong hung over him.

“Get a grip. There’s nothing out there. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just me in my room, like every other night,” he said after several minutes. With a deep breath, he peeled himself off the door and kicked off his shoes.

He lit the half-burnt candle that sat atop the fireplace mantle, sickened by the fact that it was the last candle in his supply…a tidbit he discovered upon his visit to the Blizzard Room early that morning. It was the second discovery he’d made in the blizzard room that terrified him; the first was a month ago, when he realized that the can of beans he’d grabbed was the last bit of food left. Since then, he’s been relying on the berries he scrounged in the woods behind the house.

He’d been telling himself for some time now that he had to be more conservative with the candles, but without them, the dark would have taken over; the very notion was something he couldn’t bring himself to face. So, ignoring his better judgment, he had continued to light them anyway, knowing the darkness would eventually win.
And now it was upon him…the night he’d been dreading for the past nine months.

The candle sprang to life, flickering softly, giving the room an amber glow that did little to ease the sense that something was coming for him.

Welcome to C. L. Freire 2.0

2010-12-02T15:28:00.000-05:00

Okay so, I know it's been a long time since I blogged, but I'm back now and here to stay. Those of you who read my ranting blogs over at MySpace might notice that while I may still rant about the world around me, I'll also be blogging about my life as a writer.

So here's the skinny on what's been going on lately:

I've been hard at work looking for an agent, so aside from the everyday in's and out's, a lot of my time's been spent doing homework, so to speak, on the business of publishing, agents, and the industry as it stands today.

I've also been working on another book. This one will be a YA urban fantasy, as told from a sixteen year old girl named Max, short for Maxine (but don't ever call her that, because she's never once thanked anyone for naming her after a crazy old aunt who Max never even met).

As for the DAVID THORNE series...though the first book is complete and the second is nearly there as well, I'm moving on to Max's story until an agent decides to give Thorne a read-through. As I'm not one for always coloring inside the lines, I'm going to post a sample chapter here, and a detailed synopsis, just because it's my blog and I want to.

As to the Writers Together website, I've chosen to shut it down. I know it was immensely popular, and I thank those who visited it and emailed me; the site, according to my reports, has had over 30k hits. It is simply too much for one person to keep up. I started it in order to help promote authors, and I was honored to be able to feature and interview such best-selling authors as Jonathan Maberry (a great guy, btw) and Cynthia Leitich Smith (who, herself has an amazing website over at Cynsations), and Jordan Dane (a fabulous author and sweet person), among others. But, alas, the time has come to say good-bye. Sorry for the cliche, but, there it is.

Anyway, I hope you stop by often. Bring some coffee and kick up your heels. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Cindy