Happy New Year!

Guess Who Sucks?

I Do!

Not only did I forget to post my Vlog on here on Friday, but I also failed to do Melodic Monday this week. Sheesh. What a bonehead I am. At least I remembered to post my absolutely amazing and mind blowing art. Errr. You all are probably wishing I forgot.

Today's art is hinting at tomorrow's vlog. Yep. Not that I have snagged your attention, I bet you'll all be tuning in tomorrow to find out what exactly the Vlog is going to be about, right? Right?

Here's the art!


And here is a video apologizing for missing Melodic Monday:


And here is last weeks Vlog:

Let It Snow, Let It Snow

I've heard my mates overseas have had a load dumped on them. White Gold, as my friend Nick calls it. He works for the city and when it snows, he gets to work overtime and makes mad cash. That said, while the Ladies and Gents in jolly old England are up to their knees, over here, we're wearing t-shirts and hanging out at the beach. Ok, maybe that isn't necessarily the whole truth.

While it certainly is cool, a rather mild four degrees, it is far warmer than any past Christmas I can remember. We had one snowfall in November, before my birthday, but other than that, and the odd flakes here and there, the grounds have been bare. Just to let the UK people know I am thinking about them, my piece of art today is a snowflake.



Yep. That's what it is. I know it looks like crap, but I never had any drawing classes.

My talent is self taught. I think that's evident.

As for my own feelings on snow? Well, I don't mind it. I just hate walking in it. No one here knows how to drive in it. Despite the fact that it comes every year, no one is ever prepared for it. And it never snows enough to shut my workplace down. So, as nice as it is to see the fluffy flakes falling from the heavens, I would much prefer the ground be warm enough for it not to stick. The only thing that matters is that the mountains have it and they are looking very pretty as of late. I will see if I can get a picture for you guys soon.

I hope everyone has a holly jolly Christmas. xoxoxo

The 12 Days Of Christmas For Writers

For all the writers out there:


xoxoox

Rebs, It's Your Birthday!

Today is Rebs' birthday.

We're doing mad scientist things in her cubicle at work.

She is not 27.

She is a co-worker. And a friend. We weren't to San Francisco and Ireland together.

I bought her the most amazing card. It only cost me a dollar the dollar store. It's ridiculous.

So, this Thursday's art is dedicated to her.

Happy Birthday, Rebs!

Here's a song for you too:

Breaking News

Not one for Hollywood gossip, I usually don't give TMZ so much as a passing glance. But when word broke of Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds divorce, I must say, a part of me rejoiced.

This wasn't a surprise to me, though the tabloids are listing this as a 'shocking split'. Is there anything that is a shocking split anymore? I mean, if Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock can't make it, who can??? It's Hollywood! Everyone is supposed to break-up!

When Mr. Reynolds married Scarlett a little part of me died. You can see what I really feel about her here. I thought he had taste. I thought he had class. He slipped a little on the scale of hotness.

Dumb decisions do that.

Not only is Ryan a Canadian representative, but he's one foxy man. We will swiftly sweep this mistake (marrying this dolt) under the rug and pretend it never happened. Of course we won't do that before taking note of the email my friend sent to me this morning.



She only said what's on all our minds.

I have an advantage, I can talk to him aboot Maple Syrup and beavers.

Yeah. You heard me.

For The Record...

I am not in a crappy head space any more.

It could have been the conversation with Branli or the short story I started. Either way, I am a-okay today. I think it was the apple I ate at four thirty in the morning. It made me queasy at first and yet wiped out my froggy head...that's foggy and groggy rolled into one.

I am making a conscious effort to eat when I wake up, trying to kick-start Ye Olde Metabolism. Hence the apple. I love apples. I've eaten one a day since the beginning of time. Well, not really the beginning of time. But at least for a couple years now.

The doctor says I have a lazy thyroid. Well...she actually had a more medical term for it. She said that if I wasn't vegan I would be as big as a house. Well, she didn't say it like that. But it was implied. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to use the word heifer but didn't have the heart. Why can't my thyroid be hyper and allow me to eat whatever I damn well please, whenever I please, with whomever I please?

Because it's difficult. Not unlike the rest of me. I bet my kids are going to be difficult. Or, as I like to put it, opinionated. Which is a nice way of saying stubborn. You'll all laugh at me when I have kids. I can see you sitting back with your arms crossed snickering at my efforts to raise the infants with my hair and bad attitude.

To be honest, I have been thinking about kids lately. More so, I've been thinking I would be a wonderful mom. I think I could impart on them the years of wisdom I have lived through and spare them from making the same mistakes I did. Of course, they will reject my wise words and make the mistakes anyways. Although, I didn't make my parents' mistakes. For one, I've never smoked a cigarette.

Some classic mistakes I made:

Not going to school for a post secondary education. Now I only have my looks to fall back on and those are quickly going down the tube.

Staying with a few boyfriends when I should have cut loose sooner. I think this is just being young and dumb. Lots of people do this. But the time I wasted really bothers me. I try not to dwell on it.

Sending out a zillion queries on my first book when it wasn't ready. I can't really take that back and I am certain I'm on at least twenty agents' hit lists.

Agreeing to be Charlie Brown in an elementary school production. I think this has followed me throughout my years. Sometimes when I catch people staring at me on public transit I think it's because they recognize me from wearing that stupid propeller beanie hat and acting like a moron.

I would have rewrote the play I penned in High School. I could still do this now. But I am lazy. Lazier than lazy. The laziest of them all.

I would have never visited what's his name in jail. A little something is taken out of you when you see a loved one behind Plexiglas in an orange jumper. It's a heartbreak I didn't need at seventeen.

Oh, yeah. I would proofread my blog. Now it's just gotten out of hand and would take too much work to fix. It's sort of like the wild dogs people keep chained up in their backyard. They want to tame them, but are afraid of getting too close.

I think kids are in my future, whether they be adopted or pushed forth from my vagina. I just don't know when. Or how. Well...I know HOW. Though I must say, the thought of a baby ripping out of me isn't something that comforts me at night. Do you think this is my biological clock? Or is it just ramblings from a girl in Canada?

Shrugs.

This was just an FYI that I was back in a decent frame of mind. The first line is the only important one. I should erase this and start again. But, like I said before, I'm lazy.

These are marzipan babies. And they creep me out.

So This Is Christmas

It's December. I know that's stating the obvious, but I felt it needed to be said. It hasn't fully sunk in yet just how close Christmas is. Old Saint Nick is practically breathing down our necks and it's time to get into the festive swing of things.

Ever since I was young, Halloween was always my favourite time of year. That's not to say their aren't redeeming qualities to the other holidays. I love the candy from Easter. The cards from Valentine's Day. The random day off for New Year's Day.

And, despite my standard ba-humbug disposition, there are things about Christmas I can get behind.

I love driving around looking at the lights. Stockings are cool. Some of the carols are pretty awesome. I appreciate the Muppet's Christmas Carol. And who doesn't love A Nightmare Before Christmas? Everyone loves it. Or at least they should.

And so, I have drawn a Christmas sketch for this fine Thursday morning in hopes of shrugging off some of this gloom and doom and sinking into a more Christmasy mood.

I know you've all been waiting with anticipation.

Twenty Things I've Learned

I'm sure I've learned more than 20 things in my duration on Earth, but these are the most important ones. Have a good weekend!

Genevieve

A sweet, supportive, and superstar writer friend, Genevieve is going to have her book published. And we are talking by a big time publisher with agents and edits and hair pulling and stuff. Well, I noticed a few glamour shots of her peppered throughout her Facebook, and they were mighty fine, so I commented on one.

It turns out, these saucy photos were for her BOOK COVER! How exciting. She was asking people what they thought and then hoping to select one to put on the back of the jacket, or inside the jacket, or somewhere on the jacket.

You might not believe this, but...

To my surprise, Genevieve mentioned that she was hoping I would put my artistic talents to use and draw her picture for the cover. Now, I know she would never mock my drawing skills and so, I have done exactly what she has asked.

I think this is going to look lovely on the back of the book.



You're welcome in advance, Genevieve!

And once again, congratulations!

Clue

Most people think of the game when you refer to clue when in reality they should think of the amazing moving staring Tim Curry. I love Tim Curry, I always have. I loved him in Annie. I loved him in Legend. I loved him in IT. I loved him in Rocky Horror Picture Show. And, most recently, I loved him as the creep-ball serial killer on Criminal Minds.

I would have to say, that Tim Curry was the Johnny Depp of the eighties, in the sense that he took the most out there roles and flourished in said roles.

If you have never seen Clue, stop reading this blog, go order it online. It will be the best ten dollars you ever spend in your life. This movie is incredibly underrated. Not only is Tim Curry front and center as the buttling butler, but you have Christopher Lloyd, Martin Mull and the always amazing Madeline Kahn.

This movie is rife with some of the best one liners ever written into a script. If you don't know the premise of Clue, six guests are called to Mr. Boddy's mansion for a dinner party where they find out that they all have something in common, they are being blackmailed by Mr. Boddy.

Well, not shockingly, Mr. Boddy dies. And, lead by Mr. Boddy's butler, Wadsworth, the charming and attractive (well, at least to me) Tim Curry, they try to figure out who killed Mr. Boddy.

Only, things get worse. And the bodies start to pile up.

This was one of my favourite films when I was a child. I used to make my father rent it every other week. The only movie that got as much attention from me as Clue was The Munsters At the Museum movie. See, even as a child I had taste. Though, I must admit, I certainly missed some of the jokes. Youth and innocence was one of my follies.

I leave you now with the trailer. And please, don't be a fool...go get it!

Ants, Rants, And No Pants

Well, I am wearing pants...so that's a little bit of a lie. Regardless, we have made it through another week and on this wonderful day which we call Fri, I get to post my Vlog. How exciting for all of you. I talk about my birthday and ants and busts.

Busts on bust.

Hope you enjoy the six minutes we have together.

Expanding My Horizons

I've decided to grow as a person and by doing so, I will bring to the world a little more culture and pizazz. Or at least I will bring a flicker of amusement to the followers who read my blog...all three of you. As you may very well know, I already have a sweet little feature on Ye Olde Blouge (that's French, but not really, I just made it up) called Melodic Mondays. This is every Monday (duh) and it is when I take the time to recommend to the masses new/old music that I adore. On top of that, Fridays around this hovel are a little something I call, vlog day. And if you couldn't piece it together, it's where I post my vlogs, just so that I can get a little more exposure. I love being exposed...I mean...ahem.

It seems as though the Tyson-Fanatics have been clamouring and demanding more. I know, shocking. (It's mostly shocking because I just made that up.) So, in order to give the people what they want, I am going to be adding a brand spankin' new feature. No, no, the feature won't be me spanking people. Although...you know...that sounds like a better idea than the crappy one I came up with. My hand would get sore. Maybe I won't paddle peoples behinds.

Every Thursday, I will be drawing a picture on a post-it note. I will then take a picture of that post-it with my phone. Then I will email said picture to my account where I will save it to my computer and then embed it in a blog.

Whew. Sounds like a lot of work, right? Well, it isn't. But needless to say, I am doing it all for you. Yes, you. The dedicated fans who come by to peruse my blog, listen to the music, and, now, enjoy the craptastic drawings my hand and brain create.

Here is the first one, hope you like it:

Goodbye

I keep losing followers.

On my blog.

On my twitter.

On my Facebook.

It's like rejection letters. You know you shouldn't take them personally, but still, it stings a little.

Do I not entertain thee? Am I not funny enough?

Before you go, couldn't you put a suggestion in the box. How can I keep you around? What can I say to make you stay? What would you like to see in my tweets, statuses, blogs and vlogs? Open your mouth. Maybe things don't have to end this way. And don't give me those excuses. It's me. It has to be me. You aren't the problem. I'm not kicking followers off my Twitter.

Maybe I offended you. Maybe you need thicker skin.

Is it my swearing? I can fucking curb my cursing.

Is it my inappropriate comments? I don't have to be so rude and disgusting.

Is it the way I think I am queen of the universe? Because you can blame that on my upbringing. I always wanted a sceptre and crown. Don't I look pretty in it.

I apologize for whatever I've done. Chances are, it will happen again.

I don't understand why you leave, without so much as a word. Couldn't you at least say goodbye? I mean, you just up and go, without batting an eye. What about me? What about my feelings? I mean...actually, to be blunt, you're kind of rude.

I don't need you anyways.

Oh, that's just the anger talking.

Ah! Another one, gone...lost to someone more amusing and with a cuter nose.

Whatever shall I do.

:(

The Written Word

Long before I was a writer, I was a reader. When I was young, I had a bit of a tough time learning how to read. My parents thought I was doing fine, but lo and behold, I was actually just memorizing what they were telling me. They figured this out when they shut the book and continued to 'read'. Boy, did they feel foolish. But at least they caught it. In grade two, they, the bigwigs at the local elementary, sat down with my parents and discussed my 'learning'.

The conclusion was, I wasn't learning very quickly.

In my defense, I came from a family of six kids, there really wasn't enough time for my parents to sit down and teach me how to read. Each kid simply couldn't get the right amount of attention. And so, my troublemaker brothers got the attention while I sort of coasted by unnoticed. This is where my world building came in handy, I simply created the friends and attention I needed. The truth is, there were other forces working against me. I didn't like my teacher that year and there were a lot of other kids in my class, including one unsightly girl who liked to beat other people up. Thus what was happening at home was happening in school as well, the troublemakers got the attention and Little Tyson drifted on by, wide-eyed and sneaky as can be. See, I had something else working against me, laziness. I didn't want to take the initiative to ask for help. In my head, asking for help was wrong. So when the teacher said, read these pages. I just shoved my book into my bag and headed home with no intention of ever asking for help or telling someone that I was having trouble learning how to read.

To this day, I still have trouble asking for help.

Regardless of the excuses, I was zipped off into a 'learning impaired' class. Yep. You heard it here first. I was in a special class for people with learning disabilities. Actually, I loved that class so much more. I went there for only two hours a day, but in that time I got the attention I so desperately craved. And I also learned how to read.

Once I got it, there was no stopping me. I consumed everything my fingers could reach. I hauled a book around with me everywhere I went. And I sat up at night reading, instead of eating cookies and watching the Bulldog and Drummond movies my parents used to force us to watch. Reading provided for me the same thing writing would provide for me a couple years later, an escape. Some of the books I read when I was a child are still my favourites, like Harriet The Spy, The Outsiders, The Secret World of Og, and, my personal favourites, a plethora of Christopher Pike books.

My love for the written word only developed further when I started reading things I shouldn't have been. Sharing a room with my older sister, of about five years, afforded me the luxury of delving into John Saul, Anne Rice, Dean Koontz and Stephen King books. Oh, the horror, the sex, the mystery--how I loved those books. So while the people in my classes were partaking in such classics as The Secret Garden and The Borrowers, I was snug as a bug in a rug curled up in my bed rereading the sex scenes in the Witching Hour, enthralled in Misery and delighting in Come The Blind Fury. These books marked a point in my life that I treasure-it's when I realized how important creation is.

Wait...where was I going with this?

Oh, right. Today my writing defines me. But without my love of reading I doubt I would have made it to this point, the point in which I chose to write over eating, sleeping, drinking and developing healthy, lasting relationships. Unlike a lot of other people, I'm not picky. I have never really partaken in any High Fantasy or Science Fiction, but I am a open minded sort of lady and would do so, if recommended something. In the past year, I've connected with a lot of writers and read A LOT of stories. Of the hundreds of writers I have come in contact with, there are a select few of about twenty who have really made an impression on me with their writing skills.

Here I need to pause and explain something.

What I like to read might not be what you like to read, or that weird chick in your office who chews on her hair. This is something called, different strokes for different folks. I can appreciate good writing, where the words blend together so sweetly it's like eating a summer-ripe strawberry. But the thing that really draws me into a story is characters. I love my characters rife with emotion, brimming with attitude, and tormented souls. Which is probably why my own work reflects these things. And the people who have cause me to stand up and take notice are ones who know how to develop the hell out of a character.

Which is why this weeks vlog gets a dedication to a very special author, Cody James. She has immeasurable talent for the craft of writing. I hold her in high regard. And I love her dearly. And so...it's Vlog Day! It's focused on this little lady and hopefully this does something to give her the exposure she needs. Please take a look.

Dear Writers: We Are All Nuts

After the rather bleak and "depressing" blog about writing last week, I thought I owed my dedicated followers, fanners, and lovers, a more positive and upbeat excerpt from my brain. Writing isn't always bad, but like most things in life, when it rains, it pours. And while there are bad writer days, I find, for the most part, my writer days are good ones because they are the days I am able to sit down and open a vein into a whole other world.

If you are anything like me, you long to write. I have a 9-5 job (well, technically 5-2 job) that takes me away from my laptop for nine hours a day. Yes, I do feel sad about it, as if abandoning the little hunk of technology. When I leave before the sun breaks the hills on the horizon, I look longingly at "my spot". I never want to leave, but I'm an adult and I have to pay my bills, so I zip up my jacket, pull up my collar and step out into bitter reality (the working world).

The hours I spend at work are filled with fun things like copying and pasting, correcting other peoples mistakes, and staring out the window trying to ignore the fact that the hours, minutes, seconds are dragging by. It's painful, really. No, I'm being serious, I feel physical pain some days. Throughout the day little bursts of ideas well up and I get excited. Thrumming with eagerness to get home, sit down, power up and get down to business, I motor through my day. And when I sit down, my word document open, I heave a contented sigh, because for me, this is home.

My ass has left a perfect, comfortable nook in my couch, one that cannot and will not be duplicated in this lifetime.

The struggle of being published is certainly a trying one in a writer's life. It's one of the least enjoyable processes in the world. It weighs on your self-esteem and you question whether you should even be writing. It's a tedious process filled with broken hearts, love, loss, insomnia and weight gain. But we still write. Why?

Because we love it. It might hurt at times, it might feel defeating, but we wield the pen because we enjoy doing it. Sure we bleed, sweat and cry over our works, dumbfounding the people we share space with. And of course, by the end of a novel we've exhausted our fingers, brains and will to live, but still...we sit down and do it again.

The truth is, it's rewarding. We get to stand before the masses and say, we write. I'm the only person I know in my reality, meaning the people I can physically touch, who has ever written a book. And I know a lot of people. So what makes me so stinkin' special? Why are we the ones who are blessed with the ability to put words to paper?

I don't know!

From personal experience, I've learned not everyone is creative. For the most part, the average person lacks the quick wit and imagination to brainstorm ideas. It's why we, as writers, cultivate a support groups of other writers. So we aren't alone and when we bounce an idea off someone and ask what they think of something we don't get, "I don't know, is that realistic?" On more than one occasion, I've had someone tell me they can't understand how my brain works. How do you sit there and simply create? For us, it's simple, we simple write what we think, but how did we kick down the door to our imagination and invite it in for a tea party?

The answer is: lunacy. We are all nuts.

I am a firm believer that you have to be half cocked or off your rocker to create. There's a reason why artists go crazy...because the demons won't let them sleep. Of course, every one's writing process is different. Some people want silence, others a nice cuppa, and others still need to smoke a big, fat joint and listen to The Roots. To each their own, but the common thread is, we are all nuts.

If you break it down, it's insane to even entertain the thought of writing, let alone actually sitting down and doing it. Not only is it an art you suffer for, one you might never get total fulfillment from, but it's one that is so time consuming. It encroaches on areas of your life you never thought anything could elbow in on. Like bathing or having sexy times. But there you are, soapy the dirty bits and thinking about how one character is going to murder another character. The internal banter is never-ending!

And so, I have yet to meet a 'writer' who isn't batty as hell. Okay, okay. You're a writer, and you're reading this with a scowl thinking, I'M NOT A LUNATIC. Step away from the defensiveness and view this from an outsiders point of view.

You would rather stay home and write than attend a good friend's birthday party. You talk about your characters like they are real. The norm for you is sleepless nights, constant mulling, talking to yourself, talking to your characters and your care an concern for your surroundings is tossed out the window. Someone could be sitting next to you talking, but you don't hear them because your writer brain is turned on. You throw your hands in the air and storm off saying, "this character is an idiot" as if you didn't create them. Often you're seen, frantically searching your purse for a pen and paper in order to write down a smarmy thing you MC would say. You tell people that when you finish a book it's like you didn't even write it. Ever so often when editing your work, you laugh out loud and exclaim something is "so funny" because you don't remember writing it. On more than one occasion you've woken in the night, flicked on the light, blinding the person next to you, and started writing in the notebook by your bed. Upon completion of a novel, you sit back with a grin as if you've just had the best sex of your life.

If that's not insane, I don't know what is.

And your general lack of care for personal hygiene and presentation during NANO isn't helping.

The irony of this whole thing is...we are damned if we do and damned if we don't. Can you imagine how crazy we would be if we didn't allow the creativity out? We'd explode! It would be gruesome, the carnage would be immeasurable. The lives lost would be catastrophic.

The truth is, I'm a vessel for creativity, as you are, and when the time comes to write, write is what I do. That's my job, no matter if it doesn't pay the bills. If I don't put those words down, who will? It's my responsibility to tell the story in my head. And publishing isn't the reason I started writing. I never had a choice, so I'm going to enjoy it.

And even though it is time consuming, and others don't understand it, I still love the creation.

And for the record, I wouldn't want to be doing anything else.

One Writer's Bad Day

Last night, I couldn't get to sleep. I felt like my head wrote a memo that hadn't reached my heart and the question 'what am I doing' rang through the night. I imagine all writers feel this way at one point or another, or am I completely alone in the frustration and disappointment that accompanies putting your work into the world? Maybe it was the article about the plagiarising that swept the Internet last week, the casual way an agent writes back 'not for me' thirty seconds after a query is sent, or seeing the struggle of many authors--some good, some bad--as they clamour for the lusted after spot with an agent, and hopefully a publisher.

The age old saying, "Anyone can write" is true through and through, but the debate over whether everyone can write 'well' is still being had. Can creativity be taught? Can we all learn to be excellent writers? What is the difference between natural talent and learned talent? Which one reads better? Do you have the characters? The plot? What is voice? Do you have it? And in the end, who will hold the holy grail, stand on the mountain with it raised over their heads and shout, "I did it"?

These are questions I cannot answer, though they say it is the dedicated ones who will persevere. Doesn't that thought break your heart? It is not the ones with the best novels who will win out in the end, just the ones who never give up. How...uninspiring. That means many writers, who write sheer crap, could very well be published simply because they don't listen to anyone or take any one's advice.

And maybe I am one of them. The first rejection I received was scathing. I was young, inexperience and, after rereading it last week to a dear friend, I have no idea why I didn't throw the towel in then and there. So, perhaps I am the dense of mind and heart. The agent pretty much flat out told me that my bad writing wouldn't get me anywhere...and so, I have been told. Should I have listened?

After spending an exuberant amount of time on the Internet in the last year and a half, I've seen it all. I've seen great stories with bad writing, bad stories with great writing, bad stories with bad writing and great stories with great writing. And the common thread these stories shared? For the most part, they were unpublished and unagented. The slushpile truly is the great common denominator.

As they say, we are all in it to win it. But the cold, dead-fish of truth is, we all can't win it. Only a select few of us will win it. And right now, it's all about being a stubborn git who refuses to back down. If I was Rocky Balboa, this might not be such a tedious task, but I don't have arms the size of hams, and I am growing weary of the fight...and watching the fight. Isn't that the nitty gritty? Because not only are we ringside watching everyone else battle it out, but we're also in the ring with them. This is why I choose friends who don't write my genres, so I don't feel like I am trying to pummel their faces with my meaty fists in order to get to the top of the pile of manuscripts--some good, some bad.

From the inside, it feels like a rat-race. And I can only imagine what it looks like to the agents and publishers. Oh, and here's the most depressing thing. With Twitter and blogs and vlogs and newspapers and facebook and social-networking, we don't even have the luxury of thinking agents/publishers are evil, moustache-twisting, sadist who set our manuscripts on fire to light their two thousand dollar cigars. Nope. They're people.

Thank you social-networking for taking away the people I wanted to blame for my misery. Now I have to take responsibility and act like an adult about it. Phooey.

To make matters worse, there are so many bloody rules. Agents have rules, publishers have rules, other writers have rules and every one's opinion of what's hot and what's not is different. No adverbs, no 'ing' endings, don't use "should, could, would", watch the personal pronoun starts, there's not enough names, too much tell, not enough dialogue, don't have more than one POV per chapter or book or series or page.

Well, here's a big fat weary sigh for you.

Last night, I picked up a book someone bought me. Upon review this could have been the catalyst of this blog. The book was terrible. I won't tell you what book, because I am don't participate in the name game, but it was published by a very big press and was a national bestseller. Well, kick me in the head and call me Suzy. It broke every rule! It jumped POVs like a Mad Hatter, it was over run with adverbs, the characters were flat, everything started with "he,she,her,him" and to make matters worse, the author was really unfortunate looking. This only confirmed my greatest fear, I will never be published because crap like this is eating up the paper my books should be printed on.

Excuse me while I clear my throat and take a chill pill.

Is this jealousy speaking? I suppose in a sense it is. What I want is a gypsy woman with a gold tooth, purple and green shawl and glass ball to tell me yay or nay. That's it. If someone could just tell me one way or the other if I will pass go and collect my two hundred dollars, I would be forever in their debt. If yay, I will plug away, edit, revise, write and create. If nay, I will do the same thing, but at least I can smother this little ball of hope keeping me up at night.

If only there was more good news. You know? Lately it seems as though the publishing contracts and acquisitions by an agent are a trickle. And bad news is aplenty. Books are dying, they say! Agents are quitting! Slushpiles are growing! Publishers are closing! Half as many books are hitting stores! People can't read!

Give me good news or give me death, I say.

Don't get me wrong. There are the shining few who come through with a post, status or thread about how they're holding their golden ticket, but they are the minority, and lately there isn't enough of them to encourage me. Of everyone I know who has snagged an agent from the publishing ether, they all say the same thing. Landing an agent and publisher is all about two things. Timing and luck. Which does two things, it makes us think, some day it will be my time to get lucky, and, so the heart, blood, sweat, tears, and cookies I fed into my manuscript doesn't matter?

And last night I had this sinking feeling that my time was running out and I had to confront the fact that I'm not very lucky.

People write for very different reasons. Some write because they had a dream, some because they see how easy it is for some authors who have dreams to get published, some because they want to dabble in something arty, some because their bored, but then there is a select few who do it because they have to. Does that sound odd?

If you're a writer who HAS to write because you do not have a choice, because you would go insane if you didn't, please line up on my left.

A very loving and caring man took the time to try and reassure me with tales about hockey players and athletes. But there was a point to his rant about natural athletes, how Michael Jordan was cut from his high school Basketball team and how some hockey player from Princeton was flat out told he wouldn't play in the NHL because he was too big but who then went on to be place with a great team and make a million dollars a year. The point was that some people have tenacity. It seems simple enough, doesn't it. And he only reiterated what everyone says, perseverance and determination, but he said it in a way that made sense.

Sometimes it isn't easy, not even for the people who have natural talent and the drive to do it.

I'm not saying I am one of the ones who has this coveted 'natural talent'. And, at this point, after my crappy writer's day, I don't even know if I have the perseverance for this whole slushpile mess, but what I do know is that I am one of the ones who has to write. Is it physically impossible for me not to write? No, of course not, I can put the down the pen (how old fashioned!). But my brain won't stop going. And while we sit around for a friend's birthday or Christmas dinner and everyone is thinking about awesome memories and the year gone past, I will be wondering how Falcon will get out of the situation she is in, and if I ever will write that storey about Mason and Lena set in San Francisco. It's just how it works for me.

The irony is, I'm not even querying right now. I just had a bad day. O-o

NaNoWriMo

Do you know what time it is? It's Vlog Day!

Excuse Me While I Write My Ass Off

Well, it's November. Writers across the globe have sat down at their computers, fingers poised over the keys, and they're going a little mad. Some of them have wrote three thousand words, others haven't even started, and the rare few have already finished their fifty thousand words. Kidding...I don't think anyone has yet, I mean it is only the fourth.

Up until last year, I didn't have a clue what NANO was, to be honest, I thought it was a Pokemon of some sort. Secret power? I have no clue. Lo and behold, it's National November Writing Month, and it's driving my Twitter and Facebook crazy. The tweets, the updates, the exclamations that they won't be able to complete even though it's only the fourth.

They should really call it, NANOWRIGOCRAMO, National November Writers Going Crazy Month. No seriously, I don't even think some people bathe, or leave their computers, or avert their gaze. I worry about a few of them, myself included.

Last year, I sat down to participate in NANO, and I hammered out the fifty thousand words without batting an eye. Well, okay, that's a lie. I was trying to get my book to the desk on Authonomy and didn't have a moment to spare. I thought I was busy THEN. So, why is it that I feel completely swamped this year?

I'm not trying to get my books to the desk on Authonomy, but still, it's almost as though I don't have a moment to spare. Eating? What's that? Sleeping? Yeah right. No wonder writers are all a little insane. I blame the sleep deprivation.

I sat down to dissect what's on my plate and what I can and cannot hack out to spare up more writing time.

Job?
No, that has to stay, unfortunately.

Vlog?
But I really enjoy doing it, and even though it certainly is the most time consuming (after the job that is) I really don't want to cut it. It will stay.

Blog?
I only really write one or two, maybe three at the most, posts a week. I think I can handle that.

Sleeping?
I don't do that as it is.

Social-Networking?
Ding. Ding. Ding.

I'm sorry, but I have to cut out speaking to all the lovely people I've found on the Internet. I love you all, dearly, but you're damaging my word count. And so, scarifies need to be made in order for me to complete my NANO book. This is goodbye.

Well, I'll just check Twitter one more time...

And Facebook...

Okay, I'll just check in the morning...

After I write 1,000 words.

Oh, someone sent me a direct message...I should reply.

And someone new is following me...I should thank them.

Someone commented on my status...It would be rude if I didn't write something witty back...

Hmmmm. This might not work.

I'll Be Missing You

There are times in life that really suck. And there are times that don't. This is one of those times that truly and utterly do. For anyone who knows anything about my working environment, you know that Leppy (Otherwise known as Christene) is my confidant, my source of entertainment and one of the only reasons I haven't dove head first out of the window I sit at.

We were hired together. And I thought we would be fired together. But it looks as though Leppy has beat management to the punch and she's handed in her golden ticket, so to speak. She quit the team. And as much as I hate quitters, I simply cannot bring myself to hate her. There is only a pit of dread and sadness, where good times and belly laughs once resided.

I suppose I should act like an adult, shake her hand, and say, "It's been a slice, my friend." But alas, I cannot bring myself to do it. So for the past week I have been silently stewing, wiping the rogue tears which manage to escape away and crossing my arms against my chest. If my depression over this even gets any worse I will have to dye my hair black, put on Dashboard Confessional and slam my door whilst screaming, "No one understands!"

The truth is, I am sure people feel they understand. But here's why they don't. They don't know Leppy. For three years, she's been the ying to my yang, the Salt to my Peppa and the laughter to my horrible jokes. If ever I needed someone to confirm something, Leppy was there, confirming it. If ever I need someone to join in while I sang City High's What Would You Do, Leppy was there singing it. If ever I needed some stray piece of art to show up at my desk, Leppy was there, delivering it.

This is an end to an era. And I am completely broken hearted and devastated. In these three years, we've been through so much. Two weddings, a funeral, a divorce, a first date, two proposals, two car accidents, two desk moves, a handful of food days, a couple ridiculous meetings, the downfall of business casual, a couple pairs of Converse shoes, a whole lotta Red Vines, a puffy foot scare, a rather unpleasant Master Cleanse, a bundle of amusing lunches and hours upon hours of hilarity.

But they say all things must come to an end, and this is no exception. And while I am taking it hard, and trying to stop the tears welling in my eyes, I send Leppy off into the world with a hug and a kiss. She'll be just fine. It's me I'm worried about. After all, who the hell is going to know what I am talking about when I want to revisit Mr. Belvedere or have a discussion about WWF and the term 'Suck It'. Sigh.

Good Luck, Leppy.

This ones for you.

And By Thursday...

I am a Zombie.

Here's a general rundown of my week:

Sunday: Record Vlog - Bitch and moan about how fast the weekend went.

Monday: Up at four, telling myself I will take a nap right when I get home. Drive to get Rebs. Get to work. Work for nine hours. Drive home. Don't take nap, instead do some writing. Think, well at least I get to watch Dexter and Empire Boardwalk from Sunday. Go to bed around 11. Tell myself I will only read a couple pages of my book, read twenty. Don't know when I get to sleep.

Tuesday: Get up at four-thirty and vow to take a nap when i get home. Throw cloths on. Get to work, work for nine hours, realize it is a gym day, mope a bit. Go to the gym. Get home. Avoid nap, take a bath. Insist I will edit vlog. Start playing on Twitter, procrastinate till nine, do some writing. Hit the bed at 11 and insist I will get an early night the next night.

Wednesday: Wake up at four - contemplate phoning in sick. Weary sigh. Get out of bed. Promise myself I will take a nap when I get home. Go to work. Work nine hours. Return home by three (sometimes earlier) Longingly look at bed, but know I have to edit vlog. Spend four hours editing vlog, but at least I can watch Criminal Minds while doing so. Remind myself I need to go to bed early. Glance at clock, it's 11 - oh shit...run to bed, insist I will only read a couple pages. Pretty sure it's well after midnight by the time I turn the light off.

Thursday: Press snooze six times. Drag sorry ass out of bed. Put clothes on, most likely stained, and drink a cup of orange juice. Head to work. Bash head on desk. Tell myself I cannot go to bed so late, especially when sleeping is so fitful, tell myself I need to take better care of my body which is broken down. Co-worker asks me a question, I reply, "Arrrrgh gahhhhh braaaaiiinnnnssss". Have reached full zombie mode. Another gym day. Shoot death glares at perky skinny girls on treadmill. All I want is cake and sleep, a nap where I eat cake just before hand. Go home. Realize I can't nap, because I have to finish my vlog and upload to YouTube which takes centuries. Put grumpy face on. Edit vlog. Vlog fails upload at 11, I want to cry, but I set it to load again. Drag ass to bed. Refusing to look at clock.

Friday: No snooze today. Spring out of bed, throw clothes on, rush to living room. Make vlog live, post to twitter and facebook. Head to work. Work nine hours. YAY it's Friday and I can party after work, do what I want, the world is my oyster. Fall into bed and nap till six. Eat dinner. Tell myself I will write, but feel so worn out, I contemplate hibernation. Go to bed around midnight.

Saturday: Rest.

Whew! I Made It

Thank goodness it's Friday. To be honest, this week was a bit of a pissa. And in truth, I am glad it is over. My body longs for a nap, my head would love to be cleared, and my WIP MC is silent (which isn't actually a good thing, because I want to finish the book) Discouraged with writing, vlogging, and everything else I put my hands on this week, I was pleased to see the week end.

I am sure next week will be better. For example, I won't delete my vlog files. I will finish my WIP. And I won't have to spend 9 hours cleaning my house. Things shall return to normal. If they don't, I have a feeling my vlogs will get increasingly more loopy...Currently, they are at moderate loop...and the loop-o-meter needle is flicking to the top. Hopefully after two wonderful days of rest, I will be back to regular Tyson by Monday. I promise I will deliver a Melodic Monday as well.

The grumpiness has faded. A little blueness remains, but I still did my part and delievered a vlog for the masses. This Ain't No John Hughes Movie went live this morning. You can view it here. And I would appreciate you passing it along through FB and Twitter that would be AWESOMENESS!

Enjoy!

Quit Playing Games

It's six in the morning, what are you doing? Well, Leppy and I just finished watching, and extensively discussing, the Backstreet Boys and boy bands. Here is a rundown of our discussion:
1. In the boy bands of the nineties, there had to be at least two ugly/unfortunate members.

2. They liked to have their ears pierced.

3. We are still unclear as to which Backstreet Boy is the cutest, we couldn't reach an agreement. Leppy is about the AJ and I kinda think that Brian is hot--you know except for the fact that he doesn't have a top lip and his earrings blinded me with their flashiness.

4. In the music video of Quit Playing Games, why are they rubbing themselves in the rain?

5. Why does Howie take his shirt off?

6. If a guy told me to quit playing games with his heart, I'd kick him in the head.

7. Boy bands no longer exist because the male bands of today actually play instruments. The idea behind a boy band is a group of 'men' (I use that term loosely) who do not play instruments-IE New Kids On The Block, N'Sync, 98 Degrees, O-Town, Backstreet Boys.

8. Did these grow men feel ridiculous in these bands?

9. Did anyone other than Justin Timberlake break out of the boy band and follow through with a successful career?

10. We are unsure if these guys still have money, but they seem to have pulled a fantastic vanishing act.

11. Is it just me or does Kevin look uncomfortable in everything?

12. The jury is still out on whether they boy band will make a resurgance...and no one is certain how they would feel about it if they did come back.

13. Without a doubt in my mind, I know I have wasted at least fifteen minutes analyzing the BSB...

14. I am unclear as to why they wear matching outfits.

15. They really like to move their hands around.

16. The dance moves are lacking.

17. I love how each video is like a little skit with a storey in it. It entertains me away from the fact that the music is mind-numbingly dumb.

18. Remember when the Fun Factory appeared on the Get Down video...wow.

A Blue Sorta Day

It's Tuesday. If you were wondering, Tuesdays don't get me down. Yesterday, I accidentally deleted my vlog files, which means I either skip the vlog this week or rerecord ASAP. I still need to submit my recording of an excerpt from my novel for a friend. One of my friends has given her notice at work. She's like the Beaker to the Scientist guy on The Muppets. I'm really going to fucking miss her. And on top of that, I completely forgot about Melodic Mondays-only because I am a bad parent and tend to ignore my babies on my days off. And I just got news that someone I truly adore is heading off again for a short while and contact will be nil.

So, I heave a sigh.

There is also the fact that I am winding down my novel. "In Wolf's Clothing" is well over the 3/4 mark which means I have a measly 20K or so to write. It will probably be done end of next week. The end is making me sad. I don't want to write it, but my MC has accepted that it must be this way. Funny how they always know best. All of these tidbits are making me a little gloomy.

The vlog thing is a lot of work. And though I really enjoy doing it, I must say, deleting the files is a real piss off. I even had them almost edited. Well, I guess I will see how productive I am tonight. If I can record it, maybe I can spend tomorrow editing it and have it up in time for Friday.

I wouldn't want to neglect my (adoring?) fans more than I already have. This is so uncharacteristic of me. Do you ever get sad for no apparent reasons? I want to chalk it up to me not being productive, but that's not the case. My novel is at 68k which means I wrote close to 20K in the last four days. Maybe it's just a sad day, I can have one of those, can't I?

To make up for the lack of music on Monday, here is a song...for my friend, for my lover.

Just A Little Crush

Vlog days are not only fun, but they teach people important things, like what a weenis is. Watch the video to see today's vlog! YAY!

Vegas Baby! Vlog Day Friday!

I'm starting to look forward to these vlog days, there is something about them that makes me happy. I think it might be the fact that I have something I need to do each week and so it motivates me to at least do SOMETHING. If you follow me on twitter or are friends with me on facebook, you know I am working on a new novel. I do have a working title of 'In Wolf's Clothing' and it is a gangster-love story. If you want to know whether it is any good ask Noelle or Paul.

And here is this weeks vlog, enjoy!

Badass Zombies & Not So Tough Vampires

Guess what day it is? It is Friday, which means it is VlogDay Friday! Woot Woot.
I procrastinated the hell out of this video this week, and I promise myself it won't happen again, because it kept me up beyond lade and woke me up earlier than need be today.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet the lovely, and very talented, Shoshanna! For all of you who know who she is, she was everything I dreamed of and move. ;)

This week I refelct, and rant, on Zombies and what vampires used to be.

Here it is, enjoy!

And BRRRRAAAIIIINNNNSSS!

My Two Cents About Your Two Cents

Sometimes I just want to complain.

Sometimes I want to vent, to get things off my chest.

To clear my mind.

What happened to good old fashioned listening?

I spend a lot of my time hearing people out, listening, sympathizing, empathizing. And yet, where is the reverse of that. Where are my listeners? Where are the people who don't jump to conclusions for me?

I don't want my problems fixed. I want someone to nod their head, hum and haw a little bit, and say, "I'm sure you'll figure it out, Tyson."

Because I always do. No one fixes it for me. I've been fixing things since before I went through puberty.

I've had people tell me time and again that if I ever want to talk I can come to them. And the irony is, I can't. Every time I swallow my stupid pride, grab hold of my nuts and take the plunge, I get slapped in the face. And people love to 'know-just-what-you're-talking-about'. They love to have a similar story. Or a sadder story. They want their shady past to be darker than yours.

Sometimes I find it hilarious. And sometimes I laugh so I don't cry.

They nudge. They plead. They demand to know about me. They assume. They judge. They cock their heads to the side and try to figure me out. But they can't. And do you want to know why they can't. Because, I'm not a puzzle for others to put together.

And when I start talking, I just want someone to listen.

I don't want a solution. I don't want a plan of attack. I don't want to know how my situation aligns with their situation. Or how everything will get better.

And then I realize, it's better to keep it to myself. And next time, I'll just swallow my words. And screw 'talking things out' because when I try I end up disappointed. I end up drained, emotionally and physically. And it does no good. It never has.

Why do I do this to myself?

Sometimes I wonder if people really know what it's like to be a good friend.

It only takes one thing, concern for a person's well being. Concern for how someone is. And to execute that, sometimes you have to shut the fuck up and just listen.

Why does it feel like that's what the world is lacking?

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Vlog Day Friday hath arrived!

Adults Only

There are times when I get grumpy from the lack of sleep. I get crotchety because I wake up at four in the morning to go to a job that stunts my creative growth, and which detracts from my writing. Sometimes, my back hurts, my head hurts, my soul hurts. And the realization that, yes, I am getting old sinks in.

But then there are things that make me feel as though I will never grow up and become an ancient cougar. And one of those things is the tea I drink at work every day. Everytime I read the package, I get a little thrill. I have a wee giggle. And the days don't seem as bleak or monotonous.

Here is a picture of what gives me a bit of amusement every, single day.


Hey look! It's Uncle Lee's Tea Bag...

KEEP your mouth closed & plug your nose.
:-/

Friday! Vlog Day!

Here it is, vlog #2. Enjoy. :)

And From The Darkness...

We pull our collars up, hunch our shoulders to the unforgiving nature, and tread lightly. Tip-toeing around the truth, we brace ourselves for the inevitable. And even when the sun scorches down on us, the grey clouds cover the city and the downpour of disappointment soaks through to our bones, setting a chill deep in our souls. Standing on the corner, the wind rustling our hair, we turn back and see the long road we've walked.

How did we make it so far? What with all these odds stacked against us.

With tired legs, with a weary heart, we trudge on.

The mirror reflects the people we never thought we'd become. Alone, but still rubbing elbows with a faceless crowd, we come to terms with all we've compromised. We realize all we've lost. Hanging our heads, we mutter words only we can hear. We never thought it would come to this. We don't know how to escape, the route isn't clearly marked, and it seems there is only one exit.

We barely recognize the person forcing the smile to our lips. Tell us, how did we get here? Because we don't know.

With shaking hands and trembling lips, we shy away from our own selves and keep in line with the procession.

Desperate, we search inside ourselves for who we used to be. Frantically clawing at the surface, we search for the wound-less child we once possessed, the child hiding in the closet, afraid of the monsters under their bed. Where is the potential we once had? If we scrape away this layer of bitter, jadedness, will our humanity come back. Peeling back the bleak and bloody, we find razor sharp cynicism buried so deep, embedded below the flesh and bone. The extraction process will take too long. Are we so lost we will never find ourselves again?

How can we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off when we're too busy kicking ourselves in the ribs?

Empty handed, empty hearted-we travel on. Through the motions of living, we participate in a world we don't even like, we don't even belong. Our common sense leaks onto the floor and the waitress at the dive-diner mops it up without us noticing. And when the gloom takes over, spreading through our chests like wildfire, we raise our hands to the ominous sky and cry, why? The tears on our cheeks sting with a bitter sense of reality.

And a sigh escapes our parted lips.

Digging our dirty fingernails in, we cling to each other. Tasting each other's misery, we drink it down and lick it clean. We bathe our sorrows, trying to drown the blackness threatening to suffocate us. Our bodies meld together, and for a moment, we experience pure pleasure. As the ripples of desire leaves our bodies, we pull away and examine the mess we've made. We pull our hair and scream in silence.

What we wouldn't give to feel good again.

Oblivion is calling and we move towards it, curiosity burning our eyes. We reach out, grasping, stretching our fingers out, begging to brush against a fraction of hope. We graze nothingness and we pull back, flinching from the emptiness. The skin over our hearts' pucker, pink and raw, and the scar forms, telling the world we're damaged goods. Branding our disenchantment there.

And from the darkness...comes a light.

A hand reaches out for us, fingers stretching for ours. They brush our hair from our eyes and tell us everything will be okay. We look in their eyes and see the hope we've been pining for. They catch our tears on their tongue and press their lips to our foreheads. They run their fingers over our hurt and swipe away the pain threatening our lives. They are warm. They smell like heaven and taste like bliss. And they invite us in.

We sigh and say, we never thought you'd come along.

Vlog Day Is Here!

Out on the rain dampened streets, a hush runs through the crowds. People exchange glances. The masses wait with some sort of expectations. Is today the day? One person shrugs, another says, "Wot, 'ow am I supposed to know?" and from the back someone says, "Could we be mistaken?" A child appears on the cobblestone walk with a bell in his hand. He rings it twice and says, "It's here! It's here! Vlog Day has arrived!" And the people cheer. The men kiss the women, the women slap the men who kissed them, and sailors the world over rejoice. The crowd celebrates with wine and salmon and freshly baked scones.

Or something similar to that.

I never thought this day would arrive! Correction - I hoped this day would never arrive. Ah, kidding. I have posted my first Vlog! You can find it on YouTube under my awesome name ThatGirlTyson...or you can click the link below!

VLOG DAY!

Comments and subscriptions are not only welcome but expected! xo

P.S - Next Vlog will have less ummming and fidgeting, that's a promise. And when I make a promise, I deliver.

WHAT AM I DOING? - PreVlog Jitters

A couple weeks ago, I got it into my head that I wanted to start Vlogging. After a few people said, "Yeah, Tee, you should totally do that." I grabbed my digital camera and took a few really cute pictures of my dog, but after that, I video-taped myself talking.

First, I have learned to never, under any circumstances, trust someone who uses the word 'totally'. Secondly, video-taped is such an outdated word, would video-recorded be the proper term to use? And thirdly, what in the world am I thinking?

It took about 14 minutes to record myself and then the process of editing was thrust before me. I sad down with a nice, hot cup of Earl Grey on my left, my dog snuggled at my feet, and my laptop precariously perched on the arm of my couch (no worries, this is where I always write-and yes, the animals have knocked it off in their fits and frenzies.) With Windows Movie Maker open, I transferred my 14 minute video over and pressed play!

GAH!

Is that what I sound like? More importantly, is that what I look like? Why do I talk so funny? What's with all my facial expressions? Why am I gesticulating like a madwoman? What am I saying? Does this make sense? What did I mean by that? Do I really talk that fast? And, above everything else, why did I decide to do this?

I would bow out, I would tuck my tail between my legs and scamper off, pretending I never even thought up my Vlog, but after three weeks of promoting it, talking about it, tweeting about it, smearing it all over the Internet, I realize, skulking off isn't an option. I'm no coward! And I hate to let people down...And so, I commenced editing...

After the first round of cuts, I'd managed to whittle the video down from 14 minutes to 12. Yep. 12. Not much of a difference, but to be fair, that two minutes were all my Ummms and Ahhhhhs. Since when have I ummmmmed and ahhhhhed so much? Must be a new thing I've picked up on the mean streets.

The second round of cuts managed to weed out all my swears.

By the time I finished, I'd managed to zip it down to about six minutes, then went into a panic over whether that's an appropriate length for a Vlog. Is it too long? Who would watch me for that long? I can barely watch myself for that long!

The truth of the matter is, I am really nutty. When I was growing up, my mother used to tell people I was a bit odd. And then when I grew up, she told me she thought I was going through a phase, but it was evident it wasn't a phase. That oddness, the oddities that make me up, comprise me as a person, are going to be blasted all over the virtual world. It could conceivably get a bunch of hits, and, though I don't expect to be catapulted into the Vlogging Hall of Fame, strangers, who don't know a lick about me, will be able to look at my face and say, "Wow, this girl is so kooky."

The beauty of this project? People will now be able to turn to their own mothers and say, "Yeah, Mum, I might be a bit odd, but look at this daft bird. She's off her rocker."

Blogging About Vlogging

In a fit of sheer ridiculousness, I have decided to try out vlogging. For those of you who don't know, a vlog (or V-Log as the hip kids say) is a video blog. Basically, it is the same idea as what you are reading here except I speak into a camera and people get to see how truly awkward and weird I am. While setting up my vlog channel on YouTube, I realized that vlogging is a lot of effort. I haven't even got to the recording of my first blog part, and I am already creatively drained.

The hardest part thus far? Coming up with a vlog name. I tried to be witty at first and ran with ideas like Tysonification-which was actually taken, surprise! Clearly, I am not as witty, wise or worldly as I once thought. Other titles I toyed with were 'One Vlog, Two Vlog, Red Vlog, Blue Vlog', Vlogged To Death, Tyson Talks, and Little Miss Vlogger. Upon realization that witty really doesn't work on me, I decided to go a different route and came up with the name 'That Girl Tyson'-it's funny because Tyson is a boys name. Uh... *crickets* Tough crowd.

While distracting Noelle through MSN yesterday she asked me a question: what is the theme of your vlog? Theme???! Am I supposed to have a theme? I thought I could just have a 'anything goes' vlog. Kind of like my blog, where I talk about anything which comes to my mind no matter how interesting or lack of interest there is to it. Then I started to worry, what if I need a shtick, what if I need a tag-line...and these thoughts are what prevented me from sleeping last night.

After playing with the idea of what my 'shtick' could be, I decided, I don't need a quirky tag-line or funny hat. Why? Because the manic way I gesticulate should distract people away from the fact that I don't have anything interesting to say or an interesting way to say it. This vlog journey has been an interesting one, and I only got the idea last week some time. Funny how that works. This is a new direction, something different, and, realistically, something to prevent me from writing my new work in progress. Just what I needed, another distraction. Will I ever learn?

So there you have it, the little elves over on YouTube are busy tinkering away with my vlog channel (and by little elves I mean me) I have a vlog name picked out, nice and simple with a little humour. And I even created a logo, will the miracles never cease? So, what do you think?

Funky Friday!

I suck. I know I suck. It isn't like I pretend I don't suck. I know I do, which is why I started this blog with 'I suck'. It's a plain and simple fact. I wish I didn't suck. I wish I could post my Melodic Monday ritual without forgetting about it, but I can't. Some Mondays I remember. Here's the thing, this last Monday, I had it off and I spent the day writing and being grumpy. (I had big plans so you can't be mad.)

In an effort to make it up to you, I am doing a Funky Friday post. Here are my top ten music choices for the week...kinda like Melodic Monday, but on Friday. This is better anyways, because it's the end of the freakin' week. And I know all of you have been looking forward to Friday, except the people who don't work, and Friday is their everyday. Though I imagine it gets lonely around the house with no one to play with, and so, they might be looking forward to Friday as well. Fuck, I ramble a lot.

There is a theme here, it is, 'songs my parents used to sing'. Fun!

This one is courtesy of my dear old dad. I swear to God, I cannot count the times he sang the chorus of this song. I remember sitting in the back of his Mazda listening to him. It brings back the days of going to garage sales and being shoved into the backseat with my knees around my ears. Maybe if you're lucky, I will one day tell you about how we used to fly around in that truck.


Here is the one for my mom. She really loved singing this, especially the French parts. Though I must say, I don't remember her singing much past the chorus, first in English then in French. Then back to English.


Both parents often sang this little diddy. I think they used to sing it while playing with their parrots. (not that isn't a code word for something-they actually had parrots).


Another one for my father. Joy To The World brings back so many memories, I seriously can't tell you the way of euphoric nostalgia that just washed over me. Music has a tendency to do that to me. I simply love this song. Thanks for introducing it to me, Dad. Really, my life is better because of this song.


There were only a couple tapes my dad had in his car that I remember growing up. The one which comes to mind first is the Good Morning Vietnam soundtrack. We listened to that probably a hundred times throughout one summer. There are two songs which will forever remind me of that movie/summer in my dad's truck:




Now, back to my mother, One Tin Soldier. This ridiculously sad song was on repeat from my mother's lips through my childhood. Don't get me wrong, I love the song, but what a message.


If there is one band that will ALWAYS make me think of my father it would be The Drifters. Another of the tapes played constantly in my father's car. We would listen to this until the day the damn tape machine ate it. Damn that tape machine!


This song reminds me of my parents. When I was about ten or so, my father bought a Juke-Box and we used to go down to Jukebox Junction and I would spend my allowance on old 45s. I loved these outings, they were the highlight of my childhood. This was one of the first records I bought, it was also the most played and danced to.


Last and certainly not least, this next song isn't really a full length song with words or anything. It's the theme song to The Munsters. I cannot tell you how many times I made my dad rent The Munster Revenge movie when I was little. Probably so often that I could recite it by heart. He would always do this silly little dance at the beginning when the song played. Ah, memories.

A Letter To My Attitude

Dear The Chip On My Shoulder:

It has been a few weeks since you arrived, unpacked your bags, and took up residence on my shoulder--located just past the curve of my neck and up from my collarbone. At first, I didn't mind your appearance. I thought you'd stir up a funk, but after an allotted amount of time, I figured you would leave. After all, everyone has bad moods, but eventually they pass. Well, it's been awhile now, and you've worn out your welcome. No matter how hospitable a person is, there is only so long a guest can stay before they are tossed out on their ear.

It's not that I don't appreciate that you have a job to do. I know you are trying to be the black cloud over my day. And don't think for a moment that I don't enjoy being cynical, sarcastic and bitter, but I would really like to experience something other than frustration and annoyance. You make everything other people say grate on my nerves. I have this overwhelming urge to finger the people in the cars which pass me every morning and yesterday I found myself shouting for no reason,. I even said 'what the fucking fuck', and as a writer, that really isn't a proper use of the English language.

While you linger about, my ability to create is sucked out of me. And the longer you stay, the harder it is for me to spit words out onto the paper. Let's not even talk about the things I have written, how sad and disturbing and misanthropic those things have been. Don't get me wrong, the center of my being is misanthropic, but I'd like to be able to write about sunshine and rainbows and kittens once in awhile. How can I write a happy ending when you're a constant reminder of the evil, greed and horribleness that exists in the world?

Not only that, but you have utterly destroyed my patience. I don't have patience for the world, for my co-workers, or even for myself. You're making this clinging to a pipe-dream thing seem like a bad idea, you're destroying the only thing that makes me happy, you're taking away my creativity. So before I do something rash, like delete every form of communication I have with the outside world, please cease and desist your operation. It's time for you to move on. If you need a recommendation for the next person you can target, let me know, I know a few extra-peppy people who could use with a dose of reality.

It confuses me as to why you even chose me. I know you saw your golden opportunity, you noticed the way things were falling around me and you snuck in there. Couldn't you have just left me to deal with the revolving door of issues? Did you really have to sink your crabby teeth in? I know you won't answer these questions, but hopefully you the point of what I'm saying.

So while you've probably had a great couple of weeks watching me brood and bite and shut myself off from people and things, it's time for you to move along. You have over-stayed your welcome. I wish you luck with all your future endeavours, but as of this moment you're fired.

Yours truly,


T.L Tyson

P.S If you have any further concerns, please direct them towards HR.

And We Have A Wiener!

Oops, I meant winner...really, I did.

Boy oh boy, was this freakin' tough or what. I absolutely adored the entries I received and picking three winners was tougher than choosing which three desserts I would be having tonight to celebrate. What? Are you saying I SHOULDN'T eat three desserts a night?

As you know, or maybe you don't, this contest was inspired by my work in progress, and those five words appear in less than a hundred words in it. Here is where those five words came from:

The pride in my father's eyes sent daggers through my heart. No matter how much of a loner I was, he was still proud. That cold night in December, when the wind howled at the windows and my family stared at me gaped mouth, my father knew I was leaving.
"One day, you’ll be the next Kerouac," he said. "You'll hit the open road in your Gremlin with Astor. One day, you’ll stop fighting the girl you are. And then you'll see the beauty in the world, Frankie. Then you will look past the ugliness.”

Regardless, you people can write. And you don't hold back, what's up with that?
Not only did you complete the task at hand, but you did it with style, with pizazz and all for some prize a twisted chick from Canada picked out.

Thank you all for participating, but let's be honest, you want to know who won...and these are the winners!

I don't normally do this, because I like to play fair, but I am going to give a fourth prize out to Nick Fuller for his entry. Let's just say this prize is for 'the most fucked up 99 word flash fiction piece' in my contest. Here is his entry:

Messy, red, shredded muscle pulp of what was once a beating heart sat in the hands of a metallic creature. Dripping, sticky and beauty incarnate. At least it was to the machine. It had begun to feel. It was pondering the concept of loneliness. And when it ripped the gremlin called heart from it's master's chest, it found meaning in what humans called a “loner”. The room was now bare. Lifeless. And it was alone. And it liked being alone. It would go on the road, like Kerouac even, but to find meaning for itself in absolute lifelessness.

Third place: Wakefield Mahon This entry was different from the others. There was a sparkle of hope at the end and it made me happy to see that.

It was Kerouac that encouraged me to buy a Gremlin. Ok he didn’t actually, call me up and recommend it but his extemporaneous style. Rather like Bruce Lee’s it was not an actual style but a philosophy of improvisation. I’ve always been a bit of a loner so it wasn’t that hard for me to just hope in my new-to-me car and drive west, where most of my memories of beauty lie, in search of the girl who could mend my heart.

Second place: Miles Brandt - Well, isn't Miles just a wordy fellow. I've always known the boy could write, but to be honest, who knew he could rhyme? I loved this from the first time I read it to the last time, in between I must have read it 13 times.

=Polyester=

The loner in blue, from umbilical rue, worked harder and longer than anyone he knew.
His boss, a gremlin without beauty and heart, asked to have a word, for civility’s part.
“Because of this and that and so-and-so, there’s a division-wide layoff, and we’re letting you go.”
“This is most inopportune.”
“Please have your locker empty by noon.”
“That’s it?” he asked, “A simple effacement?”
“Spare me the tears; call it replacement.”
“With whom and whereof? Kerouac, Bo, Harry or Joe? Don’t tell me it was Vanhove.”
“None of the above; we hired Jackson, don’t blame me, it’s affirmitive action.”

First Place: Robb Grindstaff - I loved this. From the minute I read it. It was witty and funny and just fantastic writing. I love play on words! And it impressed me in such few words, not that Robb hasn't impressed me before. ;)

He’d had a few drinks before he got to my place.
“A snifter of Kerouac, please.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Brandy. That bottle there.” He pointed to the shelf.
“Courvoisier?”
“That’s what I said. You heart of hearing?”
He scowled at how much I poured then drank it like a shot.
“Now give me a vodka gremlin.” He squinted to focus and looked around the bar while I mixed a gimlet. “Any hot chicks ever come in here? I need a beauty call.”
“The redhead, Fran. But she’s a loner.”
“Perfect. I’m just lookin’ to borrow her for a few minutes.”

I think this was a success and I might just be posting another contest for the masses. I hope you had as much fun writing them as I did reading them! Now I just have to convince these poor saps to give me their addresses so I can send them their prizes. Awkward.

That was some great flash, and I can't wait for the next round!