Girls' Night Out

"Ten bucks he doesn't remember why he has my name and number tomorrow," I said sauntering out of the restaurant we held girls' night also known as Fat Friday and God-I-Really-Need-A-Cosmo-After-The-Week-I-Had. I know I am in a committed relationship going on seven years, but come on, he was so cute! I had to give him my number...

***

"I love this place," my friend said as we sat down near the hull of the pirate ship. "Let's split something."

Considering that all the food is cooked in a glorified Fry Daddy or is dipped in cheese, we decided on one of each. It all started with three friends sitting at a bar, a seemingly innocuous Cosmo handed to me by a bartender named Lisa, and our own personal fondue pot at 9 p.m. As we fished in the boiling oil for the escaping piece of vegetable or to rescue the meat that sat in there too long, we caught up life, work and love, bubbling over with stories like the hot oil. 

"Oh look! That's Dante!" my friend exclaims. The four of turn in our seats to see a little older gentleman dressed as a sea captain posing in front of his ship next to a guy throwing up deuces and making a duck face. Dante makes his way around the restaurant, greeting patrons, shaking hands and making conversation. He hits our seats at the bar.

"Hello ladies! Are you all having a good time?" he asks. We answered that of course we were.

"Well what are your names and what do you?" are the next questions we answer. He left us for a bit. While he was gone, I got tired of the clips hold my hair. I pulled them out, letting my frizzy waves to fall around my face. He came back, ordered a Coke from the bartender and grabbed some of my hair. "You have beautiful hair!" he said. "I used to cut my sisters' hair for them growing up. I love cutting hair. Your's is so thick. I bet it would be fun to cut."

Then he regaled us with the story of how he got his name (something to do with his music director father discovering an Italian boy for some chorus, then meeting him again in the Great War...). We were enthralled. This socialite man is incredibly interesting, having created a restaurant that stands as a tribute to his networking skills; there are pictures of him with Jimmy Carter and magazine covers with his face on it. 

Next thing I know, we are poking around his office upstairs, which is cluttered with an eclectic mix of bottles, artifacts from trips to Africa, pictures and piles of papers. We were there to meet his giant fluffy white dog, who comes to work with him everyday. 

"I live on a 1920s train car. Beautiful thing. It has a marble bathtub," he said, stories transitioning from his charity work in Africa to save the cheetahs to traveling along the railways in luxury train cars. 

"Give me your number and we'll get together so I can cut your hair. You can come to my house and we'll do it on a Sunday."

I gave him my number and the girls and I trailed out of the restaurant.

"I promise I'll go with you," my friend said on our way to our cars. 

Four weeks later and he still hasn't called. I'm a little bummed that I don't get to hear more of this man's story because he obviously forgot why he wrote down my name and phone number. 

92 Days of Madness: The Life of a Non-Writing Writer

92 Days: how long it takes to settle into life. Three months of moving, unpacking, and reinstating normalcy. My curtains are (mostly) hung and my clothes finally have a place to stay (that is not the floor in heaps). Our dog loves our (rented) backyard, and Boyfriend passed his boards. This year has started out in a whirlwind, a crazy tornado of consumed time.

So much has happened, I hesitate to try to cover it all in one post, which is why I am not.

In the past 92 days, I have worked, visited family and friends, read a bit and ignored my writing. The ways we spend our time reflect what is important to us at any given time, and my writing became the lowest rung on my ladder. This is what I do every year, particularly around the holidays. Good intentions fall away to bad habits. 

In the spirit of the New Year (albeit a little late), I am aiming to reclaim my time and write more, to become less of an enthusiast and more of a writer while still managing to make time for everything else. 

Cheers to the New Year!

Mucus and (Half) Marathon Training

Today marks the (re)start of my marathon training... and I'm dying. No really. I think I coughed up a lung. 

My best friend talked me into this insane idea that maybe, just maybe, I could be ready for a half marathon in February, marking my first year anniversary running. I was egged on by her blog: http://kprunningdownadream.blogspot.com/, where she called me out after I agreed to run the 13.1 miles with her. 

I have a love-hate (mostly hate-hate) relationship with running. All my life I told people I despise running and that I run funny, which was true until I practiced a few times. I ran the Cupid's Undie Run as my first race, raising money and awareness for the Children's Tumor Foundation. Granted, it was only a mile and there were adult beverages before and after. It was my "gateway" run. Bonus: it was for charity and we won Best Team (Go Red Jaguars: Kirsten, Ann, Lauren, and Corey)!




In March, I ran for the charity  Andee's Army benefiting children with traumatic brain disorders. This time was a 5k with my dad and Ann. If you are every struggling running, you need a friend like Ann. Her teacher-ness follows you along the road as she claps and cheers you on while she runs beside you.




April marked another 5k called Run the River (which assists a non-profit benefiting local homeless people) and new running shoes. It wasn't until then that I realized I wasn't actually using a shoe built to run. My speed and practice picked up.

A week or so later, I was in my next race, the Athens Twilight 5k, with my dad and sister. I was grateful just to finish, to be honest. There was this one hill that just about killed me. My dad will tell you that I swayed a bit. Something about that Georgia heat and humidity hits you like a ton of bricks if you haven't been practicing for it. My sister placed in her age category though! 

The day finally came in July to run the Peachtree Road Race (10k), which was the goal I had been working toward all along. It was awesome! Maybe I didn't train as much as I could have or run the whole way, but it was a huge rush and I am glad I did it (faster than I thought I would, too!). 





Which brings me to now: I haven't raced since the Peachtree and I've been on again-off again running because of my migraines, scheduling conflicts, and general apathy. I am two weeks behind on training for my half in February. To get back on the right foot, I've made/stole a plan from Hal Higdon's Training Programs. 

The good news is that if I fail at training, there are other shorter races that weekend. But I want that 13.1 sticker bad now. This coming from a girl that ran the mile in high school in 15 minutes. :)

A Case of Stopped-Up-Writing-Brain

I haven't been doing a lot of writing lately, and I have plenty of excuses for not doing so: working late, needing to exercise/cook/clean/sleep, hanging out with family or having a stomach ache/tired eyes/migraine (which are totally valid, but I'm making a point here). What it all boils down to is my utter lack of focus on the story. I would like to say that I eat, sleep and breathe writing it, but that is just not the case. Real life happens, bills need to get paid, and the pup does need a walk. And I have come to terms with that being okay. 

On the other hand, when I do have time (usually on the weekends), I have a complete lack of focus. I think to myself, "Hey, now would be a good time to get a couple pages written, or maybe edit that last terrible bit I wrote." Eight times out of ten, I find something else to do. I mean, who can say no to this face ------------->

Lately, when I do sit down to write, I get "writer's block," which is a phrase I dislike. It sounds like a simple child's wooden toy that can be built with, creating imaginary places easily. Only it's not so simple to move past my block, but I have compiled a list of items that work for me.

1. Reading anything - books, magazines, blogs, etc.
2. Unplugging - Get away from the screens (television, computer, phone...). They are mind-numbing. Hours pass that could have been productive but fail to be because you are Pinterest-ing too long.
3. Spending time with someone who can take your mind off of your story. 
4. Crafting helps me to use the creative side of my brain and usually reignites the flame of a story that petered out. 
5. Cooking, similar to crafting, takes me to my creative place. Usually after doing these, however, I tend to be too tired to write, but I get back to it soon after.
6. Changing venues - coffee shops with big squishy chairs are my favorite haunts, as well as libraries, parks, and anywhere outside of my living room.

Please send any other ideas my way. I've got a bad case of "stopped-up-writing-brain."

The Keys to Katharine

After knowing Katharine for years in my head, today I share a bit of who she is. 

Katharine is a teenager living in a fictitious feudal city (yet to be named; please send suggestions), vaguely based on medieval England, which has been relatively peaceful of late. I have debated many times whether this should be set in a made up world. My reason for choosing an imaginary one is purely selfish in that I get to make up how people acted instead of following historic trends, actions, gender roles and actual events. 

To picture Katharine is more than just a few physical traits on a page. She has long red hair and witchy grey eyes, wrapped in a fiery, intelligent and kind spirit. Freckles dust her cheeks and her skin is golden-tinged because she spends more time outside than in being the daughter of the stable master.

She helps her father with the horses and rides better than most men. Her way with horses is well-known throughout the country. When she was eight-years-old, she calmed a prized "untamable" horse that even her father failed to control. Crawling cautiously under the paddock fence, she held out a filled honey comb to the horse and whispered sweet words to him. After a tense moment, the horse lay next to her in the grass as if he were a foal. The king, witnessing this, gave her the steed. He said to her, "One remarkable creature deserves another."

Her father, while good at raising horses, was not quite sure what to do with his 9-year-old daughter after his wife, Pru (short for Prudence), was murdered. Pru was a healer, often called upon to heal illnesses in the castle. Katharine learned about healing from her and took over her mother's role for the townspeople at a young age, as well as helping in the stables. 

Katharine's life holds many secrets, but I don't want to reveal too much as they are tied into the story itself. Time to focus on writing the story instead of my blog... Wish me luck. 

Not Another Hobby...

As a sat at my computer this evening, with every real intention of writing something, I was at a loss at what to write about. No writing inspiration struck me. Instead, I was walloped by the overwhelming need to run and cook (a new hobby and a neglected one). Cooking (more so eating) is one of my creative outlets. I get excited about new spices, recipes and feeding people. (Don't worry, Dad. You get to try some.)

After running a 5k, I tucked into my own recipe (with a little pinterest direction as to a couple ingredients, oven heat and time). In lieu of a post about my writing this evening, I give you my recipe.  

Stuffed Acorn Squash

1 acorn squash

1 cup quinoa

2 cups water

1 pound of Italian Sausage unpacked (I used sweet)

1 tbsp butter

1/3 cup almonds*

½ medium sweet onion

1 Roma tomato

1 can corn

¼ cup brie, cut into chunks*

¼ cup sharp cheddar, shredded*

salt

pepper

olive oil

Italian Seasonings

*Amounts are estimated, because I don't believe in excessive use of measuring cups. 

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Cut acorn squash in half then scoop out seeds and goo. Drizzle halves with olive oil, a little salt and Italian spices (I used a Tuscan blend with rosemary and sun dried tomatoes).  Bake for 45 minutes.
3. As the squash is baking, prepare quinoa as package states, which should simply be bring 1 cup quinoa and 2 cups water to a boil, then turn down to a simmer until water is evaporated. This should take around 35 minutes.
4. In a large skillet/wok, brown Italian sausage until fully cooked. Use a strainer to drip off the oil. Set aside. Wipe out residue oil from pan.
5. Melt a pat of butter in the pan the sausage was cooked in. Drop in onions and almonds. Cook until onions are translucent and almonds are lightly browned.
6. Once the onion and almond mixture is cooked, add the sausage back to the pan along with the quinoa, corn, tomatoes and cheeses. Season with salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning to taste.
7. After the 45 minutes, stuff the squash halves with the mixture. There will be extra, probably enough to stuff another squash. (I am freezing my extras.) Bake for 10 minutes, and then broil for 2 minutes. Voila! 

     Be warned, friends. I wanted to rub my face in this. It was AH-MAZING! Happy Monday!

Halloween, Harry Potter and Hating NaNoWriMo

Halloween

Please forgive me for my gratuitous post of my Halloween, which has nothing to do with writing except to indulge in a little creativity. Basically, I got dressed up (as female Indiana Jones), hung out with some cool people (including two Russian gymnasts, a British Army guy, and Quailman), ate a bit of chocolate, and watched several amazing Halloween movies on ABC Family (of which I will only admit to Hocus Pocus).

I would post the slightly embarrassing "mugshots" that the Russian Gymnasts left on my computer after making London 2012 name badges... But I think they may kill me. Just know, ladies, I have them. ;) Also, I am still cleaning up glitter from your hair. 

Harry Potter

I am now nearing the end of the fourth Harry Potter book, for the umpteenth time. Admittedly, I am a nerd, but embracing is much more appealing than fighting it. The funny thing is, even after all this time and knowing what happens, I still get nervous for the characters. 

My goal: to be a writer that gets re-read. But my first, I need to make it to the "must-read" shelf (or any book shelf at all), which I will not be doing during NaNoWriMo. 

Hating NaNoWriMo

While I think the idea behind NaNoWriMo (or National Novel Writing Month, where a writer creates an entire novel in the month of November) is great, I abhor the actual task. Every year I start with good intentions, and every year I stop. This year holds no plans for participating; however, in the spirit of holding true to the festivities, I am making an effort to write more throughout the coming weeks. Maybe I will get lucky and finish something without meaning to. 

Here is a clip of last year's (which will probably never get finished because I have entirely forgotten where the storyline was heading): 

NaNoWriMo 2011 - Untitled

Scottish music danced in the night air. Fiona dance alongs with the other seventeen-year-old chorus girls.

“Fi, you must keep your knees bent. Rehearsal must be as good as you plan on performing,” claims the instructor, who happens to be their local bald priest.

Fi nods, but her focus is elsewhere. Ashley giggles at Fi’s ineptitude while keeping in perfect step with the music. Several other girls send mean looks toward Fi, but she does not take notice.

“All right ladies and gents, I think that’s enough for today. Candlemas is in two days, so we must be prepared to show off our skills. No new shoes for Candlemas. They will only serve to rip up your feet. God bless.” the priest announced to the room. His eyes scanned the crowd until he found Fiona. She ducked her eyes and began shoving her dance shoes into her bag. Parents started arriving for the young ones and the other teenager girls walked out gabbing about hair and getting burgers.

“Fi, my dear, what’s wrong?” the priest startled her.

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing, Father.”

“‘Tis a sin to lie, Fi.”

“Then I’ll repent later. How many Hail Mary’s for lying?”

Good luck to all my writer friends who are making the great attempt! May your novel take many unexpected, exciting turns.