National Novel Writing Month Update

As I posted earlier, I participated in November's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWrite2014). Here's an update: I finished November with 47,000ish words, about 3,000 shy from my 50,000 goal. I stayed up fairly well until Thanksgiving break and then my priorities shifted to turkey, stuffing and my mother's glorious banana cream pudding.

However, I am now at 53,000 words with my final chapters still in the works; that will have to wait until Christmas break. Then, I will begin the long editing process. I am excited about this book. It is different from anything I've previously written and has a good message.

Until next year NaNoWrite, next time I will own you.

The yearbook adviser's Twelve Days of Christmas

This is the busiest time of year for a yearbook adviser. For us, we will turn in 148 pages to our publisher before we leave for Christmas break (thus, the reason there are no presents under the tree I just got around to putting up this past weekend).

I thought yearbook advisers around the country needed a Twelve Days of Christmas, so here it is... 
I'm positive my fellow advisers can relate:

 

On the twelfth day of Christmas

The yearbook gave to me

TWELVE grainy photos,

ELEVEN proofs to edit,

TEN spelling errors,

NINE missing headshots,

EIGHT students whining,

SEVEN days ‘til deadline,

SIX computers down,

FIVE kids with Flu,

FOUR safety drills,

THREE lost links,

TWO botched events,

And a massive stack of pages due!

 

 

Why I've neglected you

I've been neglecting my blog. November is National Write a Novel Month. After scraping my last manuscript a couple of months ago, I thought, what better time to start the next one? So, my goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. That's roughly 1,700 words a day, not an easy task with a full-time job and kids at home.  Not to mention, I have ridiculous OCD when it comes to self-editing. It seems I'm incapable of turning off that annoying self-editor who lives inside my brain to just WRITE. Write complete crap and polish it later. No, that polishing has to be done NOW, like yesterday, and it has to be shiny, shiny, perfect, glowing, reflecting off the ceilings.

I typically write adult funny mystery. I won't give away the storyline to the last manuscript I finished out of fear some brilliant writer, much better than me, will steal my idea, write it and publish it before my turtle-butt can set my other projects aside to finish the dadgum book cover. However, with my current manuscript, I'm turning a 180. I'm cleaning up my language, my humor, and silencing my dirty mind to write a Young Adult Dystopian Christian. I'm roughly 13,000 words in. I'll let you know how it goes.

Here's my question to you; have you ever thought about writing a book? We're only eight days in to November. It's not to late to catch up. 

10 Things I wish I knew in high school

Me (left) and my sister, Angela (right) rocking
big hair in 1991.

 Oh, what I would give to go back and give my teenage self some words of advice, starting with you're definitely going to regret that hairdo and the gigantic bow is not a good look. (Sorry to include a picture of you too, Angela, but like what any good, little sister would do, I'm taking you down with me).

As a teacher, I am reminded everyday what it was like to walk those halls. I remember trying to find my place in a world where everything is overdramatic, small problems feel like the end of the world, and to quote the Fresh Prince of Bellaire, "parents just don't understand."

10 things I wish I knew in high school:    

1. Who you are now is absolutely NOT who you will become later in life. As sophisticated as you think you are, at some point, you will shake your head and hope nobody remembers the stupid things you said and did.

2. When parents give you grief, it is because they are trying to spare you from making a mistake either they did or someone they know did.

3. You really aren't the center of attention. Your classmates aren't focused on you; they are too busy focused on themselves.

4. Despite what you think, you're not grown. It is impossible to have a grown up relationship with someone when you are still figuring out who you will become.

5. High school drama is pointless. You won't stay in touch with the majority of people you go to school with. Those you do, won't be the ones causing the drama. 

6. 99 percent of the things you get upset about don't matter. The fact Catty Claire gave you a dirty look in the hallway, or Joe Loudmouth got snippy with you in government class will not affect your overall life. Neither will that break-up that is so devastating now.

7. Your parents are just older, wiser, more mature versions of you. When you are their age, you will still feel 18 and believe it or not you will remember what it was like to be in high school.

8. High school will definitely NOT be the best time of your life. That sibling who annoys you so much now, will be the one you want in your corner later in life. 

9. Don't wish your life away. "I can't wait for the weekend, turn 16,  graduate, turn 21, get married, have a family." Milestones will come. Enjoy the moments in between.

10. There will come a point in your life when you read a list similar to this and not roll your eyes. You will not shrug it off as another adult who doesn't understand you. You will smile because you know it to be true.

Death With Dignity: A daughter's perspective after a prolonged, painful death

My thoughts are with a woman I've never met. 29-year-old Brittany Maynard lives with her husband in Portland, Oregon. She's beautiful, with shoulder-length brown hair and light eyes. She adores her family, loves to travel and Nov. 1, Brittany will die.

Brittany has an incurable, aggressive form of brain cancer. After two unsuccessful surgeries, Brittany's only treatment option is full brain radiation. However, the side effects from the treatment could destroy her quality of life for the little time she has left. She could die in hospice, but run the risk of developing morphine-resistant pain. While the cancer eats away at her brain, she could experience personality changes and a loss of verbal, cognitive and motor skills. Instead of radiation, Brittany made a decision. She packed up her life in California and moved to Oregon- one of only 5 states that has the Death with Dignity Act, an end-of-life option for mentally competent, terminally ill patients with six months or less to live. In the event the dying process becomes unbearable, this act allows patients to self-ingest doctor prescribed medication that will end their life.

I read Brittany's story on Facebook last night, and was overwhelmed by the number of those commenting on her story. Some supported her; many criticized her citing Biblical reasons. As a Christian believer, I understand her critics. However, from someone who has walked the same path as
Brittany is headed, I understand her decision.

I lost my father two weeks ago. He was only 61. Like Brittany, my dad suffered from a cancer that required brain radiation. He took the chance with treatment, then we watched as everyone of 

Post cancer, post radiation, prior to severe brain necrosis,
prior to the surgery that removed his ear and temporal bone

Brittany's fears materialized in my father. The radiation ultimately caused brain necrosis; the necrosis slowly but effectively ate his brain one section at a time. Although the treatment bought him more time, my father lost his quality of life. For four years, he was in chronic pain, constant angst. My family and I were forced to helplessly watch the slow, brutal process of losing him a piece at a time. We sat beside him through numerous painful surgeries and recoveries. We stood by him as his ability to perform simple life tasks began to fail- drive a car, hold a fork, move his feet. We watched as he lost ability to comprehend and process information. We cried when he lost ability to communicate and recognize things familiar. We held his hand as he agonized from morphine-resistant pain, and fought back tears when he told us he was ready to go. In the end, we sat beside him in hospice, waiting, praying for God to bring him peace. The process was torture on my sweet daddy; the experience was heartbreaking for us.

Nov. 1, two days after her husband's birthday, Brittany plans to ingest the pills that will end her life. She plans to be in her own bed, surrounded by family and listening to her favorite music. She will still have her mind. She will still have her dignity. She will not be in physical pain. She will have
spent her final days traveling to her favorite places with those she loves.

I can't say which way to exit this world is best; I can't say if that final act will have any bearing on the eternal soul. I can only wonder, if given the chance again, would my dad have chosen a different path?


(See Brittany's Story)

(See the slideshow from Dad's funeral)

 

 

Mr. Pansypants invented football

Forget everything you've ever learned about the history of American football.
Here's the real story.
The year was 1892. William Pansypants sat in his velvet wingbacked chair gazing at the "old blue" floral paper covering his parlor. He ran a manicured finger over his perfectly positioned handlebar mustache before studying the gentlemen that surrounded him. Like he, they were dressed in their finest attire- frock coat, breeches and bowler hat, while enjoying high tea and scones. Then in a deep and proper voice Pansypants asked a question; "How can I become less of a girlie man?" The men started brainstorming and football was born.

What is it about football that turns normal men into loud, raging beasts?
I live in a house with three males. On game day, the Neese house, which I would normally consider a somewhat calm and stable environment, becomes a steam room of testosterone. Arms become weapons prepared to fire into the touchdown position at any second. The room becomes a landmine of man food, and attire is limited to sweat pants. By half-time, I'm expecting noise complaints. By final buzzer, I'm moving to a convent.

On field, there is an equal amount "I am man; hear me roar" behavior going on- trash talking, chest bumping, cheap after buzzer hits. These players aren't fooling me. It's obvious that eye black is more for cool factor than functionality. Those high-knee kicks into the end zone and that Heisman pose held just a little longer than what's appropriate is really the player's attempt to catch their alpha male moment on the ESPN highlight reel. With athletic tape covering every joint like it's some sort of war trophy, and super-serious player photos that could easily double for police mugshots, players make a point to remind us that football is not for pansies. In a world where everything from linemen to biceps are supersized, and a slap on the ass is masculine, congrats Mr. Pansypants, mission accomplished.  

When did werewolves & vampires become immortal hotties?

Yellow, slitted eyes stalk me in the darkness before the creature saunters towards me. Fallen tree limbs crack beneath his large, dog-like feet. The moonlight catches a glimpse of his oversized frame; with broad shoulders and protruding muscles, his spine curves to absorb the weight. The blackness of his soul makes even the leaves stiffen in fear. My limbs paralyze. My body trembles. My heart pleads to escape my chest as he moves closer, hovering over me. Saliva drips from his dagger-like teeth. His fangs are blood-stained with remnants of his last kill still packed against his gumlines. His coarse, unruly hair covers every inch of his skin. The creature is anything, but human. He smells of roadkill, masked with a faint hint of lavender. Is it cologne? His focus narrows in on my throat as his claws switchblade outward ripping into my flesh. A scream escapes my mouth, although it doesn't sound like a scream at all. Muffled. Weak. Child-like. Not that it matters; help would not come. It's too late anyway. My breath falls shallow as the beast's vociferous howl echos through the woods, signaling to all that he has captured his prey.

When I think of a werewolf, a large, beastly, smelly, hairy, moody, dangerous, dark creature comes to mind, such as the wolf in Stephen King's 1985 film Silver Bullet. However, recent Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance releases are casting a much different "were." This leaves me to wonder when werewolves (or anything supernatural for that matter) suddenly became sexy, immortal hotties.

The Twilight series left fantasy enthusiasts debating which sexy alpha male they'd rather have pierce their neck- Edward, the pale but attractive vampire with enduring eyes and soothing voice, or Jacob, the olive-skinned, muscled-up, shape-shifter who's in need of a slight attitude adjustment. Who could leave out MTV's hit series, Teen Wolf, starring Tyler Posey and Dylan O'Brien? This is just another example of the contemporary trend of steamy immortals who've received a sexy makeover.

I wonder if our sudden infatuation with turning deadly, immortal, blood suckers into our new man-crush is simply our obsession with the mysterious unknown. Or, is it an example of the dark side of human sexuality where depravation, lust and dominance seems to be at the forefront of so many modern day storylines? The current 50 Shades of Grey hype might be a solid second example of this; however, that is a completely different blog for an entirely different day.