Humpty Dumpty and Writing

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.

Just so you know, this has been my month. Okay my last three months, maybe more, but who's counting? And no, I haven't been an egg, even if (alas) I may be trending toward that shape. Think of me more like all the king's horses and all the king's men, and I've been trying to put my WIP (work in progress or current manuscript for you non writer peeps out there) back together again.

It's not working any better than trying to fix a broken egg.

So what to do?

Eat scrambled eggs and get a new Humpty--one who doesn't like walls.

I'm done, finished, OVER trying to fix my messed up manuscript. I can't stomach sitting down at the computer and fiddling with the shattered and cracked pieces one more time. Today I will trash it. As in deleted, scrubbed, GONE.... Well, at least I'll take it off my computer and store it on a flash drive, then I'll hide the flash drive in the basement under sixty pounds of photos waiting to be scrap-booked. That'll teach it. That old WIP is never going to see the light of day again. EVER. (I'm just not that brave with the delete key. It scares me. Just saying. But I'm great at hiding stuff. It's a true talent. I call it denial. Aren't you jealous?)

And no, I'm not bitter at all. Really. Why? Because the premise is still a good one, and that I'll keep. And the characters can stay if they start being nice to me. (You've been warned.) It's just my words that have to go. Stupid, messed up, egg-covered words. Be gone I say!

Strangely, I'm excited to start all over fresh and new with no mistakes...yet. It's invigorating and hopeful and tingly and hopeful. Did I mention hopeful? My question is, why did it take me so long to get to this point?

I guess I'm just plain stubborn.

What about you, when do you stop trying to pick up the pieces and just make scrambled eggs?



Yum.

Kissing Up To An Angry Cat

My cat is angry. Why? Because we left him home while we all went away, which is why you didn't get a post earlier this week. It's really hard to post without internet access. Really hard.

Anywho, back to my cat. We left him home because he's a cat, even if he thinks he's a better human than me. He had food and water and other cats to torment, but he didn't have us--no people to pour his fat little self milk. No humans to open the door when he meowed. No family to cuddle with. None. So now that we are back, he's ticked. Okay, really ticked.

How do I know? He's giving me the silent treatment. Heck, he won't even look at me. He just turns his back and shuns me. Ouch. No one does the silent treatment like a cat. They can make you bleed from lack of eye contact. Seriously. I had to get out the band-aids. Sniff.

And just to make sure I know how mad he is at me, he curled up with kid D and purred. Then he glanced back at me to rub it in.

And they say women have mood problems. Sheesh.

So, I have to make up with my cat, and like any good man, the path to forgiveness is through his stomach. Can you say milk? And cheese? Yes, and even *gasp* tuna. Tuna always works.

My only question is, if he's so ticked, are you? Are you shunning me for my absence? Will you give me the silent treatment for missing a couple of posts? Will you make me bleed?

Hello? Are you out there?

I'll go get the band-aids.

Okay, and the tuna.

Writing Prompt Tuesday

Today is a writing prompt kind of day. So, your assignment, if you choose to accept, is to write a short sky diving blurb from the view point of the diver's faulty parachute. It doesn't have to be long, just a paragraph or two. Have fun and post your results in the comments section. I'd love to see how many different takes we get on this.

Here's mine:

I knew the day was coming--I felt it in my seams, the fraying and wear. I just didn't know it would be so messy...and loud. Man that guy could scream. I mean, come on, really? If he was so afraid of heights, why did he jump out of a plane? Me, not a sound, well other than the rrrriiiiipppp, oh and the gushing, but that was more the air than me. I just flapped and waved goodbye till the screamer and I both died of deceleration poisoning. Somehow I think it was harder on him, but what a way to go! Yeah, gravity, he's a killer.

How The Chair Became Short

Okay, yesterday I posted a pic of my newly remodeled chair. It looked exactly like this:



And yes, if you look closely you can see paint smudges from where I used it as a ladder while remodeling the basement. It's just that kind of chair.

Several peeps out there wanted to know how the chair ended up in pieces on the floor. So, by popular demand, this is how it went down.

It involved a 4th of July parade, a red balloon, helium, a seven-year-old girl, a forty-something-year-old man, a tired mother, and an completely innocent fourteen-year-old boy. Oh, and gravity. Gravity is the real culprit. Not me. Really.

So, we went to the parade and melted in the sun...er I mean cheered for the floats, and the football team, and boy scouts, and the candy throwers, and the person handing out helium-filled red balloons--but especially the person who handed out fans. Ahhhhh best part of the parade. Did I mention the melting? Gotta love the fourth.

Anywho, Kid D got a balloon. Fast forward through bbqs, and fireworks, and the impromptu campout in the rain to when we got back home, tired and dirty and tired. Oh and tired. Kid D, who loved her red balloon, lost her grip and the thing floated up to the ceiling.

Enter the forty-something man, aka my sweet hubby, and the chair with a history of being a ladder. Yup you guessed it, crack. The back leg broke. We stared at it, and in my sleep deprived state I said, "I'll just shove it back together and try to fix it in the morning."

So I did. I even tucked the chair under the table like a good mommy should.

The morning came, but I forgot about the chair. Kid B, who knew nothing about the faulty leg, came up for breakfast and ended up sprawled on the floor with a pretty stunned expression on his face. Let it be known, I did not laugh. Promise. I just mumbled something like, "Stab me in the eye." Then I helped him up and took a pic of the chair. See, I'm very motherly. And gravity really is to blame, not me. You believe me, right?

Anywho, there you have it. See why I posted about the Phantom TV Watcher instead? Does anyone else want to request a blog post? Anyone? Anyone? Really, I'm open to suggestions.

And no, this doesn't have anything to do with writing.

Leisha Maw

The Phantom TV Watcher

So, how did your day start? Mine started with a crack and a thump...and a newly remodeled chair. Here's the pic. I'll let your mind wander and ponder how it became so...short.



Anywho, We had a great time camping with the kids, but the real story today is from my sister's life. She lives down south where it's hotter than the surface of the sun and only crazy people go outside during the summer.

Last night around nine, she and her hubby were watching a show in their room while their five-year-old, Niece K, watched a kid flick on the main TV. Niece K wandered into her parent's room and said, "There's a boy in our house."

My sister stared at her. My bro-in-law stared at her, too. Then they both said, "What?"

Niece K said, "He's watching the show with me."

Now, there should not have been a boy watching TV with Niece K, and for some strange reason this kind of scared my sister. She jumped up and ran to the front room, followed by her hubby and Niece K.

You guessed it, no boy. The questioning commenced. It went something like this:

My sister: Was there really a boy?

Niece K: Yes.

My bro-in-law: Maybe you made him up. Are you sure there was a boy?

Niece K: Yes.

My sister: Where is he then?

Niece K: I don't know. I think he went into my room.

My sister, kind of wigging out because strange boys should not show up in your house and then go into your child's room: What?

Bro-in-law: How old is this boy?

Niece K: Maybe two.

My sister and bro-in-law relaxing because two-year-olds are not scary like say sixteen-year-olds: Oh. Are you sure?

Long story short, they searched the room and the house. No boy. Niece K kept proclaiming that there had indeed been a boy watching TV with her. She even provided a detailed character description down to his baseball cap and sneakers.

They were about to award Niece K with an Oscar for best performance in inventing an imaginary friend when my sister noticed about twenty people going down the street yelling into the gathering darkness. Who were they? A search party looking for a lost three-year-old. Apparently they'd been scouring the dessert and surrounding area for some time.

My sister went out and told them about the phantom TV watcher, and the search moved to my sister's back yard. Yup they found him happily playing in the playhouse.

The mother burst into tears, and Niece K became a hero for watching TV and not making up an imaginary friend. Oh, and the kid got to go home to newly installed kid-proof handles.



So, what's the moral here? When you tell a story, or invent an imaginary friend, make sure you have the details and search party to back you up because getting people to buy into your fantasy is hard, especially if you're five.

I hope your weekend and holiday rocked!

Leisha Maw

4th of July Camping

Hey folks, and yes, I did just call you folks, due to an unexpected 4th of July camping excursion with the fam I will be posting tomorrow instead of today. Gotta love summer.

Leisha