Fifty Shades Of Frustration

I am on Twitter.  I'm not too terribly proud of it.

My motives were good.  I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot.  Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away.  Or so I thought.

By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value.  Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:

BUY MY BOOK FOR .99, TODAY ONLY #bythewayitsucks

Mona doesn't need dignity where she's going...  VAGUE BOOK TITLE #scrubyourbrainwithlysollater

#Write your #novel in five hours but.payme20bucksfirst.com !!!!

I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter.  The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike.  Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes.  Something happened late last week to change that, though.  An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.

Until last night.  Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so....  I don't have the words to describe it.

I followed a particular female author, just because.  She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars.  This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice.  Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care...  about something, at least.  Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser".  They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are.  Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.

I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary.  The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book.  At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.

It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey.  (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant....  I just....  Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)

So, whatever.  I get it.  Sex sells.  A lot.  Like major best-seller a lot.  That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying.  I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.

This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again.  At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series.  Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic.  Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.

What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term?  If not, it is now) with his followers.  I mean....  What???  Y'all have no shame.  I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?

I'm not against romance novels.  I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life.  I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking.  Trashy novels don't require thinking.  But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.

It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against.  That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies.  That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z.  Depressing, really.

I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel.  However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to.  I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.

And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down.  A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.

#rantover #amiright?

For Your Consideration...

Last week I attended my sons' Valentines parties with toddler in tow, even though school parties make me want to drink.  If my kids didn't keep track of these things on some invisible ledger and then judge me with tears filling their huge brown eyes, I'd be happy forgoing them altogether.  Ohboy #2 is especially sensitive to this, and shamed me for a solid week when I accidentally (really!  I swear!) missed his Halloween party.  Ohboy #3 usually gives me grief for overlooking the more obscure school celebrations like "Grandparents/Special Person Day".  When they say "Special Person", apparently that means ME.  It's appropriate, I know.

On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school.  Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry.  I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms.  He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings.  In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat.  Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.

Except...  When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.

Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer.  Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after.  The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit.  Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school.  I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.

Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable.  And why?  So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school?  So they didn't have to take a day off from work?  But where does that leave my family?

I have health insurance, but it is crappy.  We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars.  To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240.  Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+.  (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child...  He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).

Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home?  I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while.  But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids?  That's a loss of wages for me, as well.  So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job.  And for what?  But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway.  Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.

And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother.  I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love!  This is the fourth round of major illness this winter!  I'm not sure how much more I can take!

All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here.  You and your family are important, but so is mine.  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Release

It was time.  

And, no, the photo above is not really from the Ohboy home.  Google "hoarders" and take your pick....  I guess people will put ANYTHING on the Interweb.  Gasp!  I know!  I was shocked, too, when I found out.

I couldn't honestly tell you the last time I'd reached all of the nooks and crannies of my kitchen counter.  We had run out of space to make lunches and prepare meals because there was a teensy little glitch in the feng shui of my Leaning Towers of Paper.

In the living room, I moved the Christmas tree (yes, the Christmas tree.  In my defense, it's small and white, but, obviously not a Halloween tree) and thought I'd spotted Bigfoot, there was so much pet hair under there.  The not-so-fine layer of dust coating everything made me feel all nostalgic like we were still passing through the deserts of Nevada and Arizona--if the deserts were wall-to-wall with bins of Legos and Angry Birds.  

Okay, so I'm being a skoch dramatic.  

Over the past couple of years, we've decided that Mr. Ohboy probably has some form of Asperger's.  He's a fixer of things, but not at all neat.  I think he used to be neat.  He also used to be a tree-hugging Democrat, but then he married me and I flip-turned all of that upside down.  Must've been my cheery disposition, huh?  Anyhow, he's messy.  And, lucky me, I have a few more boys up in this hizzy who are varying shades of the same incredibly sharp and yet very fragmented mind.  Whether I nag for something to be tidied or he takes the initiative himself (which only happens in the garage), the results are always puzzling....  Usually a twisty-turny path lined with piles of things, leading to an eventual bottleneck.  Straight lines and angles?  No way!  Navigation through even the most mundane room should be an adventure, and even a little bit dangerous!  Where is the excitement in placing things against walls or--gasp!--throwing it away?  Nowhere, that's where.

If you've ever seen one of those t.v. shows dedicated to hoarding, you'd understand that my family was just one major life event away from never washing another dish or throwing away a food wrapper.  Again, I'm being dramatic, but, at the same time, I'm sure that lots of those people on those shows probably didn't see it coming, then BAM!  They wake up six feet deep in used adult diapers and fossilized cats.

Last Saturday four of the six of us came down with some stomach thing, so we decided, come Sunday, to hang out at home close to facilities and far from other persons who probably didn't want what we had.  That's when we (I) began Operation Declutter.  Spurred on by some organization my mom had done in the boys rooms while we were on our trip, we began by dusting our room.  To dust our room, we had to fold roughly 15 loads of laundry that had been dumped in the corner, file papers, throw away boxes.... you get the idea.  From there we moved to bathrooms, crusty floors, my walk-in closet nightmare, the living room toy explosion, and, finally, the kitchen (a.k.a. filing cabinet with a stove).

Five days, I've been at this nearly from morning till night, taking the odd break to sit down, go to a prenatal appointment, or ride a horse.  I estimate I clothed a plus-sized army with all of the clothes I lugged (literally) from the house--a mini-van full.  In one load of garbage/recycling, the weight of all of those broken, boring toys lifted from my shoulders.  I love the way my house looks, and the ease at which it takes to clean things now that I don't have to shift so much junk to unearth the surface below.

I've not completed my mission.  I still have three toy boxes to sort through, and a few baskets of boy clothes to move into bins, which will be exiled forevermore in the plastic bin catacombs.  The catacombs are next; and, while my soul is itching to tackle (and annihilate) the Rubbermaid abyss, I know I am tired and anxious to make some forward progress on the novel.  The clutter was a snare to my creativity, the words finding themselves buried in unimportant things.  

Releasing means receiving peace.  I'll take all the peace I can get.

Can't See the Forest In My Teeth

I really, really hate it when I have half of my dinner stuck in my teeth and no one shares.  I'm that person.  I don't think less of you just because you enjoy yourself some pepper or parsley.  Heck, I love me some of that stuff, too.  I will, however, make sure that people don't think you have polka-dot teeth if I see something amiss.

Share the love, peeps.  Shaaaaare the love.