Wednesday, June 30, 2010


I'm feeling de ja vu as I'm pretty sure I've written about life's fragile moments pretty recently.

I have a friend going through a rough time (no doctor, I'm really talking about a friend, I'm not referring to myself). Just another reminder how short life can be and how we should make the best of every single minute we have of it.

Here are a few simple things to make life a little easier.

Spend time with people that make you happy.

Listen to your kids laugh, cheers me up every time.

Take time for yourself, even if it's only a few minutes.

Don't waste time on things that make you crazy.

Simplify and try to stay organized.

Enjoy the scenery.  

These seems like simple instructions to follow, don't they?  The fact of the matter is, they're not.  So many of us speed through life, doing things for everyone but ourselves, missing our kids childhood, making ourselves crazy over clutter and "things".

Slow down.  
In the words of Ferris Bueller, "Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." 

Just something to think about.


Tuesday, June 29, 2010


Okay, here is the plan.  I have reviews to write and/or film.  My plan is to work on this Wednesday.

I have reading to do, which I'll be doing over the weekend.

I need to write.  Desperately.  Haven't for a week and I was at a place in the novel I was really excited about.

Need to go through my closet and drawers and purge some (a lot) of things.

I need to start keeping a calender.

Going to try and simplify, maybe sell some stuff or have a garage sale.  Anyone need some Harry Potter collectibles? 

Focus, focus, focus...

Monday, June 28, 2010

Fresh Starts

Sometimes we just need a fresh start in life.  Regroup, refocus, get our crap together.  This is one of these times in my life that I need that.  My hiatus was not taken for writing, I actually didn't write not even one word.  It was taken for personal reasons.  To start over.

Have you ever felt like that, that you just need a clean slate?

So, back to it.  See you tomorrow.



Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Temporary Hiatus

The Angsty Writer will be on hiatus at least this week, if not next.  Sorry, don't miss me too much.  Keep writing and reading and channeling your inner angst. :)

Friday, June 18, 2010

F³A: Offsides of Life

I know, I know, I'm talking about soccer a lot.  But I love the sport, and many of the rules could translate to life.

Many are confused by the offside rule.  Here is a short explanation: an offside foul is called when an offensive player, or attacking player, is passed the ball and there are not at least two opponents between him or her and the goal line. Usually, these are the goalkeeper and one other defender, but not necessarily.  

Basically, you are gaining advantage in an unfair way.

This is how I think the offside rule could translate to life:
On a freeway off ramp, when there are two lanes and one is ending, those drivers who speed up on the right to get as far up as they can instead of waiting in line like everyone else should be called offsides.  I mean really, is their time any more important than the rest of us?

When there is a long line at the cashier and a new one opens up and the person at the end of the line jumps in the new line instead of allowing those at the front of the line, that person should be called offsides. And the cashier should be bitch slapped for allowing it.

To the drivers who don't stop when someone is waiting at a crosswalk.  Offsides.

To those who cross the street against the light, then proceed to take their damn sweet time.  Offsides.

In a line for a sporting event, or concert, or any other kind of event, the person that tries to cut in line by any means possible.  Offsides.

When at a parade, the person who squeezes through the crowd to get a place up front.  Standing in front of your kids.  Offsides.

I think you see my point.  In my opinion, these people should get yellow cards, if not red.

Current song on my iPod: This is War by Thirty Seconds to Mars

Current read: Facebook Addiction: The Life & Times of Social Networking Addicts by Nnamdi Godson Osuagwu

I will mention I just finished Alchemy by Mike Wood.  Look for my review soon. 

Current watch: Dakota Skye an interesting Indie flick about a girl who can spot the truth in every lie.

Quotes of the week: "It's much easier to write when you're sad. But you can end up isolated and depressed because you almost need to put yourself in that situation to have that angst to write from." ~ Natalie Imbruglia

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Angst Defined



A feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression

This is me in a nutshell.  The reason I call myself the Angsty Writer.   I truly believe this anxiety and depression makes me a better writer.  I always find the words flowing quickly onto the page when I'm at my most, well, angsty.  I also can ONLY write poetry so far when I feel this way.  It's crazy, I know, but it's me.

This is why I rant and rave.  Why I cry.  I think it's why I mostly write about dark places and death.  Why most my main characters need to be hurt in some way shape or form.  It's like literary cutting. :)

I've said this a million times, writing is a form of therapy for me.  

I am middle aged emo. 

Of course, I'm not all gloom and doom.  I also have my fun quirky flirty side, but that doesn't usually surface when I write.

And now for your reading pleasure (or displeasure) from my novel that may never see the light of day, Lockdown, a very angsty excerpt. :)

      I followed the trail of blood, his blood, a result from his body being dragged across the floor.  That was the red carpet that led to my Pulitzer, my Emmy, my shot at an anchor position.  When I woke up that morning, I would have done anything to get ahead.  At that moment, I regretted every decision I’d made that day, starting with selling out Justice, to entering that Godforsaken school.  That red carpet led from Kevin, past the body of the teenage boy, and out into the hall. 
     I didn’t want to go back the way I came.  I didn’t want to breathe in that stench of death emanating from that classroom with the dead girl.  I passed offices, and the library, which I made the mistake of glancing into.  Blood, everywhere.  Crying.  Bodies.  McGrath would have loved film of that.  No way was I turning that camera on again.
     I passed a staircase, an empty art room, thank God for that, more offices, classrooms, the auditorium.  There was something up ahead on the floor.  I tried to look straight ahead as I passed.  I knew it was a body, blood drying on the floor encircling it.  I couldn’t help from glancing.  The head was gone, nothing but a red, bleeding nub where the neck used to be.  That’s when I started to run.  There was a door at the end of the hallway, the window smashed out.  I threw the camera out the window, I didn’t care if I damaged it, or how much it would cost to fix.  They could take it out of my check for all I cared.
     As I climbed out the window, I was met by a police officer who helped me the rest of the way out.  I picked up the camera, and was led back down the hill, and across the street to the Wal-Mart parking lot, and the empty news van.  I leaned against it, the keys having been in Kevin’s pocket.  I took my cell from my pocket and dialed Mr. McGrath.
     “I need a ride home,” I said.



Wednesday, June 16, 2010

An Update of a Different Kind.

Select soccer.  

Thing One's coach approached me last week after practice.  He had told the parents about some tournaments the teams were going to be doing during the summer, but both teams couldn't be at the same tournaments because there wasn't enough players to fill both teams yet.

So after practice, he told me he would definitely by taking Mary to the tournaments with the A team.  He also said when picking teams, she was right on the bubble.  He went on to say that had he not enough for both an A and B team, Mary would have made the team.  Yet, since there were two teams, he took physically stronger kids on the A team and left Mary on the B team for a couple of reasons.

1) Mary will get as much playing time as she wants on the B team, whereas on the A team, she would be fighting for playing time.

2) Playing that much would prepare her better for high school soccer, which he knew she wanted to play.

I think he gave viable reasons, and we felt better about the decision.  Since more has come up though.  Will update when the time is right.

Oh, select soccer, why do you torture me so? 



Tuesday, June 15, 2010


Just a couple of updates about the upcoming release of Mending Fences.  I FINALLY got my contract in the mail.  It's signed and on its way back to HMH (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) as we speak.

Also, here is something kind of cool, Mending Fences has been posted on Not only that, but people have already been marking it "to read".  Ack!!!  Okay, it's a short list, but it's a list just the same.  It's kind of cool to see your book up there on the Goodreads website with people already wanting to read it.

That's it.  Now from what I understand I wait some more.  What for the advance, and then an editorial letter.



Monday, June 14, 2010

Thing One Graduation Day

My girl, Thing One, Mary graduates from 8th grade today!!!

When did I become old enough to have a high schooler?  I'm still in my twenties, right? sigh.

So congrats to my girl, she's beautiful, smart, fit, and funny.  She's going to rock the world in a big way.

Friday, June 11, 2010

F³A: World Cup Excitement

Those of you who know me, know how much I love soccer.  I've been waiting four years for this event to come, and the first game doesn't disappoint.  South Africa vs. Mexico.  The first goal was a perfect left footer in the upper corner of the goal shot by Tshabalala of South Africa (isn't that a cool name?).

At this very moment they lead 1-0 and are second to the lowest ranked teams in these world cup games.

Only problem is it sounds like there are a  million bees at the stadium because of some problem with their sound equipment.

If you've never watched world cup soccer, you should.  It's amazing, the passing, the headers, the shots, plus soccer players are just hot. You have seen the cover of the latest Vanity Fair, right? (see pic at left) There is some drama.  I love when they milk their injuries to run time off the clock.
And as I'm sitting here blogging, Mexico has just tied the game!!  See, exciting!!

Well, I need to go, I'm missing the game.  Makes me excited for my daughter's three indoor games tonight (even though I have to coach one of them, scary)

Current song on my iPod: When You Were Young by The Killers

Current read: Alchemy by my friend Mike Wood (yes I'm still reading it, I'm slow)

Current Watch: Duh, World Cup Soccer.

Quotes of the week: 

Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that. ~ Bill Shankly

I fell in love with football as I would later fall in love with women: suddenly, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain it would bring. ~ Nick Hornby

Every kid around the world who plays soccer wants to be Pele. I have a great responsibility to show them not just how to be like a soccer player, but how to be like a man. ~ Pele

Every time I went away I was deceiving my mum. I'd tell her I was going to school but I'd be out on the street playing football. I always had a ball on my feet. ~ Ronaldo

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Attention to Detail

So, I'm in this critique group, right? And I've put my dystopian out there for them to read, and some questions have come up about the details.  The minute details.  Let me be specific because I want to know if these are actually issues I need to address, or if I can be a little vague about it.  

The majority of the population has been wiped out due to a virus.  How specific do I have to be?  Can I just leave it at that, or are people going to want an exact percentage?

The main character is just a mom.  It's told in first person, so there's no way she would even know this, right?    I mean, I suppose before electricity was cut off, she could have got a number from the news, but eventually, there would be no news and people would continue to die, right?  So no way of knowing the final count?  

I've asked a few people about this now and am getting conflicting answers.  Tell me what you think about the small stuff.  Necessary to mention or okay to gloss over?

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

so tired

i think i've been the most tired this week that i've ever been.  i haven't slept well in days. and today it caught up with me.  

i didn't even hear the alarm go off, my husband get up and get ready for work, or leave.  i usually get up with him and make his lunch.  i hope he does not go hungry.
i woke at 6:30 am.  those that know me know that this is late for me.

i told my kids they would not be getting a ride to school so to make sure they get ready in time to walk.

my body feels as if it's weighed down with lead.

i'm forcing my eyelids open.  they want nothing more then for me to go back to sleep.

i'm so tired i refuse to use caps.

i don't want to get dressed.  
i just want to lay down unfortunately my life does not allow it.  cleaning, a trip to the mall, and a house guest tonight says otherwise.

maybe tomorrow...



Tuesday, June 8, 2010

What to write next...

Well, blogger was down for a while yesterday and by the time it came up, I was deep into other things. So, it's Tuesday. I think I'll talk about writing today.

As you know (if you read me on a regular basis, which you should if you don't ;) I've just finished my first set of revisions on Cheesy, and am now working on my untitled dystopian. The problem, I have tons of book ideas, and I feel not enough time to write them all. Do you have this problem?

I've got at least three more YA started, a couple women's lit pieces, with one constantly on the brain, and of course, I have five shelved completed books I'd like to edit.

I'm excited about all of them. It's been hard to choose which to work on when. Of course, I needed a follow up to Mending Fences, and Lockdown apparently didn't cut it, so I tireless wrote Cheesy, and everyone so far is liking the dystopian, including my agent, so I've decided that should be the next project, but then which do I work on?

How do you decide which project to focus on? What you're hot on? What the market is calling for?

Do you choose the next project for yourself, or your audience? Discuss. :)

Friday, June 4, 2010

F³A: Everything Under the Sun

Well since it's the Friday Free For All and I have nothing really to talk about I'm just going to talk about everything. :)

We had a day of sunshine yesterday.  Yay us!!!!  And we're back to rain and gray.  And yes, I know I live in the rainiest place on the planet, but I always have and always will.  There is much to admire about the Pacific NW, it's green and clean.  I'm a car drive away from lakes, mountains, oceans, rivers, waterfalls, and a couple national parks. 

Thing One's school soccer season ended yesterday with a 6-0 win.  They only lost one game, 1-0 which was a bunch of crap because our goalie had the ball and a girl on the other team basically shoved her into the goal.  I think Thing One score 4 or 5 goals during the season, and she had a bunch of assists.  Awesome.

Thing Two's arms is healing well, she seems to have full mobility now.  We're trying to get her into contacts for the upcoming soccer season, but she's not taking to it well.  Anyone have any tricks for getting contacts in your kid's eye?

Finally got a book review out yesterday, I seem to have lost the ability to put videos on my blog, as the video button appears to be gone.  Anyone have a solution for that?  Can I embed a code or something?

This cool cat Amy Munday does what she calls  Writer's Scribbles on her Unabashed Impropriety blog, and this weeks featured author is yours truly, check it out here, leave a comment.  Also, she's looking for other authors to feature, if you're interested, let her know.  Tell her Megan sent you.

Also, I am embarking on a new blog venture.  More later on that, though I can tell  you, it's going to be awesome.

Here's a little snippet from the dystopian I'm working on, just to tease you. ;)

     Exiting, I strolled down the hall to another door and opened it, a linen closet.  The next door led to a bathroom.  It was filthy, caked thick with grime and mold.  Mystery fluids, more than likely blood and vomit were splashed across the walls, and the floor.  I opened the cabinet below the sink and found Lysol, disinfectant wipes, glass cleaner, tile cleaner, a sponge, and paper towels.  I wiped everything down, spotless, threw the garbage on the floor, and walked across to the last room.  The girl’s room.
     I approached the soiled bed and removed the rest of the bedding.  I went downstairs, through the mudroom, and the back door, I dropped the sheets to the ground.  Entering the barn, I looked around for something to put water in.  Most of the tools were old, and peeling.  After scouring shelves, and bins, I found a bucket.  One of the old metal kind, with a rusted and squeaky handle.  It was quite a walk down to the pond, and having to navigate through the overgrown grass and brush made it no easier.  Once at the pond, I stopped and admired the scenery.  It was quite beautiful country.  Tall cedars surrounded the property, standing guard like wooden sentries, blue sky hanging over like a canopy.      
     Squatting down, I filled the bucket.  Staring into the murky brown mass, I wondered if we’d ever have running water again.  I missed running water, doing dishes in them, showering.  I was tired of pool water, and pond water, and rainwater.  Tired of boiling it until it was okay to wash in, to drink.  I rose and carried the bucket to the house, it sloshed and splashed all the way, sprinkling my legs, my shoes.
     I put the bucket down outside the back door, went in and retrieved the propane stove, a stockpot, and boiled the water.  I had some cleaning to do.  Once the water boiled and cooled, I poured half of it back in the bucket followed with some laundry detergent, grabbed the sponge from the bathroom, and went into the little girl’s room.  I poured a generous amount of water onto the mattress and began scrubbing.  I don’t know how long I scrubbed, it could have been five minutes, an hour, but the stains persisted, lingering like a scar in the flesh.  A reminder of what once used to be, a family, a life, and now death.

That's all you get.  You can let me know what you think if you like.

Current song on my iPod: Winter by Joshua Radin

Book currently on my nightstand: Charlaine Harris, Dead Until Dark, though still reading Alchemy by my friend and total hottie (he loves it when I say that), Mike Wood

Current Watch: A Serious Man, started it last night.  Will finish it tonight.  Loves me some Joel Coen.

Quotes of the week: 

"The Sun is nature's Prozac" ~ Astrid Alauda

"In the sun I feel as one" ~ Kurt Cobain

"I am solar powered" ~ Megan Bostic ;)



Thursday, June 3, 2010

A Slice of Cheese(y)

So, I finished my first round of revisions of my novel, Cheesy, yesterday. I have a few people reading it to give me some feedback. When they're done, I'll do another round.

But until then, I'm going to work on another project, more than likely my untitled dystopian I started last year. What I've written so far has received some really good responses. But I do have something else I've started as well. ugh. I can't help myself. I also have an idea for a kind of comedic chick lit book (i'm not all gloom and doom, I can be funny).

So I think today, I'm going to give you an excerpt of Cheesy for your reading pleasure (or displeasure I guess, if you don't like it :)

Cheesy, Chapter One

There was a time I used to wear dresses. I wore pink, and patent leather shoes, and ribbons in my hair. I used to play with dolls. That was before my mom died of the cancer. I sat there and watched her disintegrate there in her own bed. I saw her hair fall out, watched her body get weaker and more frail by the day, watched her silently slip out of consciousness. Her already labored breath would catch and her chest would heave when it became too painful to even breathe. When she finally died, I was glad I was asleep. I wouldn’t want to have watched her take her last breath.

Upon waking that morning, I went downstairs to an odd pair of undertakers in my living room. The first undertaker was just like the ones you see in the movies. His name was George and he was very tall and pale with dark hair and a deep voice. The other’s name was George too. I know, too weird. He was the comic relief. It was almost like watching a vaudeville act instead of the men who were going to take your dead mom’s body out of your house forever.

Then there was my dad, looking dazed as the undertakers performed their monologues, then went about their duties. He didn’t speak, he didn’t cry, tears having run their course weeks before, he just sat, and I let him just sit, staying quiet, watching him. I wasn’t sure how he was going to take it all. Truth was, I didn’t know him very well at all. At the time I was thirteen, and my mother had been my sole caretaker while Dad coached college football, and travelled. And when he was home he worked on plays, and watched film, and strategized. I knew lots of his players, he’d invite them to dinner every so often and my mom would serve them meatloaf, or pasta, or pork chops while my dad told them they were playing well, or how to improve their game, or that they were being cut. That’s how it went it our house.

The undertakers finished up, and rolled my mom out on a stretcher in a big black plastic bag with a zipper down the front. They handed my dad some pamphlets, he still didn’t speak, just nodded really. He didn’t even get up. I closed the door behind them then went to my mom’s room. She had her own in the last few weeks. The air was stifling and held a stale smell to it. A death smell. 

Pictures still hung by thumbtacks to a cork board, photos of us in happier times. There was one of her and me baking cookies, some from our many trips to the zoo, my parents wedding picture. I hardly remember her looking like she did that day with a head full of hair and rosy cheeks and a full body.
Her bed faced the window so she could look out over her garden, which my grandma would come and tend for her in the final days. Light was shining through the window and a stained glass ornament I made for her in third grade, the colors spreading across the gray carpet like it had spilled right out of a rainbow. Looking across the room, I could see every piece of dust filtering through the air. Swatting my hand through it to make a clear trail, I stepped toward the shelf full of books that stood right underneath the window. My mom, she loved to read. I remember her reading to me when I was little, Where the Wild Things Are, fairy tales, or poems from Shel Silverstein. I know some of those by heart. One of my favorites was called Whatif. I often thought about the Whatifs in life, so I guess this made perfect sense.

When my mother read for herself, she read stories with strong female characters, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Color Purple, and the like. She taught me to be strong myself, and to always go for what I want in life, big or small.

On the wall next to the window was an entertainment center with a television, a stereo, music and movies. My mom’s favorite movie was Fried Green Tomatoes. We watched it together a bunch of times. I admit, I liked it too, though it definitely isn’t my favorite, but I like how the women stand up for what’s right, and stand by each other in the hardest of times.

My eyes took in the room one last time before exiting. Everything was just the same as it was the day before, except for her bed of course. Hospice had brought in a hospital bed for her, one of those that you can lift up the head and feet, the kind with the bars on the sides so you don’t fall out. It was stripped. No more purple sheets, no more quilt made by my grandmother’s own hands, no pillow case. No more mom. Stripped away just like the soiled bed sheets.

But that’s enough about my mom, though I still hold her memory close to my heart and strive to be what I knew she wanted me to be, this really isn’t about her. It’s about what came after, and me and my dad, how he raised me, and the what and why of how I got where I am, and who helped and who hurt along the way. It wasn’t easy that’s for sure. Pretty much everyone was against me, well, everyone except Tommy, but then I’m pretty sure Tommy would support anything I did seeing as we’ve secretly liked one another since seventh grade.

So like I said, when my mom was alive, I was a girl, when she left me, things changed, I changed. I felt I had to, otherwise I might as well have been an orphan. I was the daughter of Shelby University football coach, Frank Reed, and he lived and breathed football. And being a daughter who wanted to know her father better, I put away the ribbons, the dresses, and my black patent leather Mary Janes, and eventually decided that the only way to my dad’s heart was through football.


Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The Sun

I know I blog about the sun way too much, but I'm solar powered.  Without it, I'm fairly useless.  Yes, I have my happy pills, yes I take vitamin D, but it's not the same.  A pill cannot compete with the big ball of fire in the sky, it's rays beating down on the pavement, filtering through my window, and hitting my face.

Yes, I understand I live in the Pacific Northwest, but we are normally allotted three months of almost uninterrupted sun. 

The picture you see here, I took from my living room window this morning.  It's what I've seen, not for days, but for months.  Rain streaked windows, wet sidewalks.  I thought last year was bad, the skies were gray from October until March.  Um, it's June people.  June when summer begins.  June when the sun is supposed to start shining.  June when I can sit outside under the sun and read a book, where I can start walking outside, when I take my laptop out to the backyard and write in the heat.

Yet, it's still pouring down rain and the sky is still gray. 

Leaving you with a poem I wrote about the sun.

White hot heat
Shimmering brilliance
Humid and inviting.
Filling vacuous voids,
The sinister chasms that
cause eternal downpours
and bone chilling rime.
Perpetual motion
Not to think or cast shadows
No moss collected
merely flow like the current.
Vivid hues, downy clouds,
fluid and weightless
blissful and tranquil

I wait for the dark to subside.



Tuesday, June 1, 2010


"I've spent most of my life walking under that hovering cloud, jealousy, whose acid raindrops blurred my vision and burned holes in my heart."  ~Astrid Alauda

I've seen a lot of this lately.  It is rampant in the writing business and of course in many other arenas.  I've been guilty of it myself.  It's one thing to feel it though, it's another to act on it.

When I'm feeling jealous, I will normally find a confidante and vent.  That way, I get it out without hurting feelings, without letting the target of my jealousy know I'm feeling ugly about them.  I think that's okay.  No one gets hurt (unless of course your confidante has a big mouth, but I think I've chosen well where confidantes are concerned).

I've also had someone come straight out and tell me they were jealous of me.  That's okay too.  You're being honest and you're not letting it take you over.  In a sense, when you admit it, you're setting it free.  As long as you admit it in a nice way.

To spew your jealousy out in a venomous, hateful diatribe is wrong.  And usually, we do this to people we supposedly care about, our family, our friends, the people that are closest to us.

My suggestions, if you're think of doing this face to face, bite your tongue.  If you're writing an email, get it all out, then delete it.

Jealousy is a natural human emotion, there's no way of stopping it, but you do have choices regarding how to tame the beast.

My Dad. He's awesome.

John Messina, Personal Injury Attorney

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