Feel me up Friday Awards: A-Holes & PSA (That's alotttaa letters)

We live in suburbia, surrounded by little angels screaming children (mine's not one of them), plenty of space linked fences (I feel claustrophobic) and the quietest barking dogs (not a dog fan). I'm a pretty patient gal (ahh, who am I kidding), but COME ON. I've decided, in the spirit of inconsideration, I'd love to pass along some awards to those deserving (don't worry, online friends exempt).

Worst, Most Asshole-ish Bark Award: The stupid dog next door

See How Late Your Children Can Scream Next To My Bedroom Window Award: D-Bags who own stupid dog

Interrupt My Writing Time Award: Oh, looky here. Next Door gets it again.

Wake My Napping Child Up Award: ............

Catchin muh drift? We live next to jerkwads. The best part? They don't care. Sooooo, *claps* bravo redneck neighbors. BRAV-FREAKIN-O. *ahem*

Anywho, Friday snuck up on me like a mofo, (which is weird since I haven't done much all week) and unfortunately, I had a problem downloading pics for today's supposed dedication. I'll work on it this weekend and it shall be Monday's highlight (or suckfest, if you hate it). The good news is, if you've yet to get a picture in, send it to me at candaceganger@yahoo.com. Anything that means something to you.

Random Fact: I've worn the same anklet for almost 6 years straight. It's one of those neon pink arcade doo-dads. The hubs won it for me showing off his game skillzzz. Needless to say I was impressed *shaking head* It's worn and faded, but still hangin' on.

Random Fact: They used to call me Woody. No fancy story, just a part of my old last name. Boring, I know.

Thanks for feeling me up again. You have soft hands. Now onto the awards:

Steena Holmes

Kelly Polark

Lee Robertson

Talli Roland

Jen Daiker

Anne Kenny

Congrats, winners on your sweet new ride award. OOHHH and, I have a special Public Service Announcement I'd like to share regarding my "Follower" status...Enjoy. Happy freaking Friday.

Candyland. OUT.

Grass: Not always greener. Just...grassier

Is the grass really greener or have our yards (in our minds) started to suck ass?

I was playing with Lilliana today, and through the window, across the street, lives this picture-perfect family. The husband is good looking, smiles a lot, but rarely home, and the wife is a beautiful blond who prances around the yard in tiny tanks with a cig hanging from her glossy lip.

They have a little blond boy, he waves at Lilliana from their yard, who seems to be a good kid. I watched the mother, (like a creepy creeperton) strut across the drive, tossing her locks from shoulder to back, and suddenly wondered what it felt like to be her.

I wouldn't trade my life. But it got me thinking about the characters we write about, fall in love with, hate, cry for, etc. Isn't it all about empathy, slipping into your character's skin, knowing how they'll talk and what they'll feel? That's why I wondered about "Tiny Tank," across the street.

 I didn't want to be her, I wanted to know why she chose the white tank, why she kept bending over for no reason, what she had for breakfast, what her dreams and fears were growing up compared to where she is now, and what makes her tick. Like really, really tick in the center of her gut.

I don't know her, never met her in the year we've been in this house. But today, there was a dull spark in her eye, something diluted and sallow. Maybe, loneliness. Maybe fatigue ( I can relate). Maybe post-Bert blues (holla). Whatever it was, it made her, for the first time to me, relatable.

And then it hit me. Every character must be flawed. No one is perfect. At least, no one I care to know. Flaws make us real. I never really noticed Tiny Tank before, outside of her excessive showing of skin. And all it took was one strange gaze, flinging ashes to the grass, that made her real to me. I could be making the whole thing up. She could be totally perfect, with her perfect husband who's never home. With her blond boy who may be a night mare. With her tiny tanks and tiny figure she may have to work really hard at.

What I'm trying to say is, if you're going to judge a book by its literal cover, at least try to pry the pages open for a glimpse at the prologue. It may surprise you. I may never talk to Tiny Tank in person, but as a character in the book of my life, one vulnerable glare took her from "who cares" to "what's she like."

Read everyone like a character, a real, fleshed-out person with feelings and motivations. Forget about what you think they might be like and dig in to their stories.
And. Your. Grass. Might. Just. Perk. Up.

Candyland. OUT.

P.S.When I hit 100, watch out boys and girls. It's getting close. So close, I'm planning the perfect contestestes *snickers* because I couldn't have done it without YOU...(and you, and you, and you... and Bert and you...)

P.P.S. Seriously? No pictures yet? Send them to me. Anything that means something to you.
candaceganger@yahoo.com

You're never gonna find it if you're looking for it: Life's a crazy b!tc#

Today, yours truly has decided to hand the beloved laptop over to my esteemed colleague, because he's full of stories...full of something...and he makes me laugh on a daily basis (whether it's at him or with him, whatev). If you hate it, I'll blame my decision on Bert deprivation. If you love it, I'll gladly take credit (and I suppose tell the hubs he kind of rocks). I've added my own noted in red because, well, I can.Without further ado, I present, The Hubs...

***

Well, Candyland has graciously asked me to guest blog and I'm stoked!  I've never really blogged before so this should be good, (or not).  At first I was thinking to re-live some awesome college stories, like the roast beef-in-the-ear incident, but after running them by Miss Candyland (aka the Boss), she decided most of them were pretty gross. Soooooo, we're going in another direction.

So when I was about 12 years old, I was waiting for the old man to do something with me in the backyard, when I ventured into the garage to pass the time (snoop).  After climbing through cobwebs (he screams like a girly man at the sight of spiders) and who knows what else, I found his golf clubs.  It's quite possible that in my first 12 years of life my dad had never played golf, so the fact that I was about to put holes in the back yard (and cut a mini tee box with scissors in the grass) was baffling to my parents.

Within 2 years, I had quit every sport I'd ever participated in.  Somewhere I heard golfers got lots of chicks, probably the same place I heard girls like nice guys, not a-holes (aww). Anyway, this journey would provide a source of pride, heartache, anger, friendships and life lessons that I never anticipated learning or, more often that not, not learning soon enough.

After a few years of tooling around, I was pretty good.  Now to be clear, I played in tournaments all summer and knew that I wasn't great, but the local high school knew I was coming and the coach was excited about the proposition.  In fact, my sophomore year we went undefeated (after being defeated 0-whatever my freshman year) and started to break records at my school.  The start of my senior year started off like a dream.  Our first tournament is one we hosted, in honor of a kid killed in a car accident, and I won the tournament and had a great year.

I headed off to college to play golf and, no laughing, major in golf management (hahaha, sorry, had to).  I had a scholarship, the coach loved me and I was awesome...until I didn't make the team. 65 kids tried out for 15 spots, so my chances weren't the best to begin with (so I still tell myself).  Head to my sophomore year and I don't make the team.  I've never been so embarrassed or lacking any semblance of confidence.

At one point my assistant coach asked me, "How long has it been since you went swimming?"
"I don't know, years I guess."
"Well if I pushed you into a pool, could you still swim?"
"Of course," I said.
"Then why in the hell can't you hit a golf ball?"

To be honest, I still can't answer that question.  All that I know is after 4 years of college and never making our team (all the while keeping my scholarship, thanks coach) I couldn't stand golf anymore and conceded that I would never be able to play at a level I wanted to (or was able to).  Then a year later, while playing the least amount of golf I've played since I started ten years earlier, I won our city championship.

All of the work I'd put in for years finally paid off.  The lessons I mentioned are too numerous to name, but one day they sank in, and everything turned out like it was supposed to be.

***

What the hubs is trying to say is, things don't always turn out the way we'd hoped, but usually we end up right where we're supposed to be. Even if it takes years of trying, re-writes, revisions, rejections and self-doubt, NEVER GIVE UP. Persevere. You're YES is out there. And guess what? I'll be right here with a virtual shoulder until then, and right here with a virtual hug when it does. We're in this together, sweet darlings.

Candyland. OUT.

PS. I STILL need pics for Friday's dedication! I only have one!!! If you want to be a part of it, email a picture that means something to you to candaceganger@yahoo.com. 

PPS. In the mood for a challenge? My girl, Jessica (The Alliterative Allomorph), is hosting an Internal Conflict Blog Contest May 15th. For details, click HERE.

I'm a baaaddd mother-SHUTYOMOUTH

I had a special day with the offspring. First, we went the zoo (Petsmart), where we looked at lions and tigers,  (striped), various amphibians, exotic birds (one macaw), and schools of very rare fish (goldfish). Then, we went to the fancy mall (Target), where we shopped for hours (twenty minutes) and left with new makeup and lingerie (Hannah Montana undies. Size xx small).

After that, both tired and hungry, I fed the child a gourmet meal (Lunchable) and desert (mini Kit Kat bar). Such a busy day, the little tyke went right to sleep (took forty freaking minutes) and slept for three glorious hours (forty-five freaking minutes), so I could get some writing done (none).

I've got to admit, I'm really missing the whole band scene at this exact moment, as I sit in sweats with no make-up and my hair in need of a good scrub. As I said yesterday, the days bleed into each other, sitting, waiting. I hate the waiting. Life is so short, I constantly feel like I'm missing out on something while I wait. Sure, I enjoy stay-at-home-mommy hood and I wouldn't trade it. But I wonder, when did I stop being a guitar wielding, short skirt-wearing, social butterfly and become a pull-up toting, stretchy waistband sporting, hermit?

Some days I feel I've lost parts that made me, me. Others, like when my husband holds my hand, my daughter says "I wuv you," or when Bert sings to me, I feel more alive than ever. But what about the time in between? The time I check my email every ten seconds and it's still empty, waiting. The time I cook dinner, to eat alone, waiting on my husband to get home. The time I post my blog, waiting on comments. The time I enter a contest, or two or seven, to see if I've even come close, waiting.

The only thing, constant and true to who I am, other than music, motherhood and wife, are writing and waiting.

Now the beauty is playing quietly (running through the house with a hula hoop, chasing cats), so Mommy can finish her chapter (start a chapter/potato/po-TAH-to). When I'm done, we'll go into her playroom and dress the Barbies (who are always naked for some reason) and have loads of fun (when she's not swatting me with their synthetic hair). All in a day's work for this gal. Mother. Writer. Superhero (a tired one) with superpowers (the amazing ability to make a time-out appear in seconds).

Is there something you miss about yourself? What's constant in your life?


Candyland. OOUUTTTTTT. (and still waiting)
Ps. If you can't tell, I'm waiting! In the meantime, please send me pics for Friday's dedication. Don't be scared.

Almost Famous ain't got nothin on this weirdo (ME)

Alas, my friends. I have returned from the big rock show in one piece (kind of). However, there are a few things I learned while away regarding my concert tolerance at the age I am today vs. yesteryear.

Then: Wanna step on my feet while you force your way past? No problem.
Now: "Get off my feet, tramp! I was here first!" *ahem* Of course I said it in my best, sweetest lady-like voice.

Then: Oh, you're trying to mosh and I'm in your way? That's okay. I'm alright with getting slammed in the head with your elbow. We're young. Let's push each other and get angry to the music for no apperant reason so those around us can't enjoy the big show.
Now: "Get the BLEEP off me BLEEP BLEEP!" *Insert elbow stabs to their eye*

Then: Wanna raise your arms over my head and tell the world you either didn't shower or didn't fragrance your (as Lilliana calls them) pit-pits? Absolutely. We're here to rock and sometimes rock smells.
Now: *Gags* "What's that smell? Ugh. I'm gonna vomit." *Pinches nose and turns away*

So maybe I'm not cut out for the big shows like I once was. But you know, there's one thing we all have in common: The love of the music. So different, we all are, yet, so much the same inside. Let me take you on my final Bert journey for the time being ala Tahereh style.  The ride there was long. But not too long. Just right.

Then, when we got there three+ hours later, while driving around and discussing (arguing) where/what to fill our bellies with, we saw bassist, Jepha, strolling along the sidewalk-LIKE A NORMAL PERSON *gasps* I don't know about you, but I always thought they had super secret rock star hover crafts to get from place to place.

After said fill-up meal (the fastest, greasiest meal I'd ever eaten), we drove past the big, shiny tour buses (totally unintentionally) about five times, looking for a legal place to park. The strangers outside probably thought we were giddy fan girls (the hubs, maybe...)...

Upon parking, finally, we crossed the street where said tour buses sat. Two men stood outside the pink one, tossing a football. As we breezed past, I turned around to see the drummer.

"Hey, Dan," I said in my pretend casual voice.

He clutched the ball against his side. "Hey, how's it going?"

We kept walking, because it was the most cool I've ever been and I didn't want to ruin it. "Pretty good," I said, distancing further.

"It's pretty boring today," I heard him say as we rounded the corner. Yes, he was still talking to me, and yes, I ignored him before we resurrected my inner d-bagness.

We found the line, with an hour until doors opened, and faded into the building's exterior, eavesdropping on the wacky college kids around us (and taking pics of our feet).

Once the doors opened, and we found our spot dead center in front of the stage, the first band went on, and for the second (or third, or fourth???) time in the last week, I fell in love.

They're called New Medicine. If you haven't heard of them, I will cry for you because they seriously ROCK. When they were finished, we waited some more, through another band, Chiodos.

And, modeled near the trash cans to show my inner Scum.

Then (finally. Silly, tardy rock stars), there they were in all of their sweaty glory. By this time, we'd been knocked stupid from our spots. It was an 18+ band on a college campus. Catch muh drift? A lot of youngsters lookin' to break free from their shackles and get crazy. Unfortunately for me, it meant losing my place. But I digress. We were still super close.
And I got to see this guy<----BERT <3

After the show, we got our obligatory passes (because we cool like dat) and again, a third chance to redeem what's known as "The D-Bag Incident" of '07. (No cameras allowed *pouts*)

Bert: Hey. *smiles*
Me: Points to my sweet shirt and says nothing

Bert: *Stands from chair, pulls my shirt taut and signs*
Me: Thanks. *smiles like goon* Great show tonight.

Bert: Thank you very much. *Lingers in my stare. Our eyes become one, melting and erasing the world around us. The music chimes in. He smiles. I smile. We all freakin' smile. I see no one's face but his, and he sees every girl's face, but mine too.*

Then I'm shoved down the cattle line while his eyes follow me. Literally. They stayed with me like he was watching his lover depart (at least in my mind)...So, no pictures to document the brief affair, but along with my purse (signed a second time in the last week), I have proof of his hand. Touching. My. Shirt.

The show was great, the getaway was even better, and I now know even more why I write. To create fans like me. The ones who drive hours to your show (book signing) and stand in line for hours just to get a glimpse of the person who gets them-without even knowing them. His music does it for me, and I hope to pay it forward with the stories I tell.

The ride home was bittersweet. My days of band-hopping, playing, staying out all hours, hanging with musicians are kind of gone. At home, life stands still. The days blur, as I wait for answers to queries or fulls or partials or anything. But in those moments where I stood, singing along with the hubs and my favorite band dude, I was in motion, not waiting. Not wondering. Just...alive.

What are you waiting on RIGHT NOW? How do you pass the time?

-Candyland. OUT (and missing The Used already)

Feel me up Friday Awards: She used to be a wwhhaaa?

My daughter told me when she used to "be a boy," she yadda yadda yadda'd. To which my response was "you've always been a girl, sweetie." She laughed like it was the funniest thing I'd ever said (I'm pretty sure it wasn't). She sees the bright side in almost anything (and the seriously dark side when she's denied her drug of choice: Polly Pocket), and could teach classes on the art of diversion, cheer and overall awesomeness (things I know nothing about. Well, not true. I can divert like a mofo. Like the time I was caught with Sour Apple Pucker in my sock drawer...)...

The only problem with a 3yo's philosophy is in the little thing we writers base our novels on: lying. After a show-interrupting news break about a missing mother found in Florida with a new dude, the hubs took it upon himself to conduct an experiment. For kicks. Asked her if Mommy had a coffee friend, too. Lilliana said "yes" with the kind of enthusiasm I'd have if Bert asked me to BFF him (no, not in that way). She believed it, owned it. Through a child's eyes is the way to see, the way to write. Believe what you're saying, what your characters are telling you. With the utmost passion.

Random Fact:  I have a book of poetry I wrote when I was sixteen, the pages frayed and smell of cat urine. My Gram nearly died in the hospital and we were so close, I slept on the waiting room's couch with my Walkman and that notebook. I'd sit on the roof and watch the sun melt away with a pen, and subsequently, a broken heart from my first love, trading my thoughts and prayers for blind faith. Miraculously, Gram got better. Summer of 1998, I'll never forget the way the air felt against my face. The way the hospital room smelled as I watched her struggle for life.

A freakin' cat, she's got nine lives and has been on her death bed many times before and after. But that summer, was the summer I found myself.

Random Fact: I have a tattoo on my wrist bearing the words to one of my favorite songs, my wedding song, called "Beautiful." Not James Blunt. Not Christina Aguilera. They're called Northmont (used to be Auryn), and the song makes me swoon.

It says:
Can I have you
Can I be a part of you
Can I help you
Can I be all for you

So that's it. You've felt me up today (and early too!) and I quite enjoyed it. Please, please do it again next Friday. Until then, some *ahem* awards to pass along. Thanks to the lovely Tammy for making my Thursday:)

MeganRebekah

CreepyQueryGirl

Taherah

Dianne Salerni

LiLa Roecker

Sisters In Scribe

The Alliterative Allomorph

Sheri Larsen

Lola Sharp

Stina Lindenblatt

Ok kids. Going to see The Used in IL tomorrow, so Monday (wooooo!), I should have a super awesome post or...not so much. Until then, tell me, who's YOUR homeboy/girl and why?

Candyland. OUT.

P.S. Send me pictures for next Friday's special dedication...

All is we have is now. And Bert. Always Bert.

Loss is universal. We've all lost something at some point. When my husband was little, he lost his stuffed bunny, Ra. A few months back, my daughter let a balloon slip through her fingers in the store. At different times in my life I've lost a number of things: self-respect, patience, innocence, belief, faith, friends, family, boys, cats, ideas, money, courage, fear, and even love.

I think loss is something we all relate to because there's so many different levels of gray, whereas happiness is a little more black and white.

Level 1: Loss of patience
End of your rope, about to implode, explode or corrode kind of attitude sinkage. You know the feeling. When you wake up to your 3yo having scooped your sweet fish into her play nets and dragged them across the floor, followed by dumping their water all over the kitchen followed by stirring water into the sugar and flour containers. That kind of patience loss. Or in Mamie the Cat's case, having 3yo poke and prod her when she's attempting her beauty rest.

Level 2: Loss of personal space
People are everywhere. And if you have children, they find you no matter where you hide (believe me). I'm kind of a hermit, pounding away at my keyboard, socializing with people across the web because, well, they're not here in my face the way 3yo is, with Polly-Pee-Pants-Pocket.

Level 3: Loss of senses like vision or limbs
Inspired by Girl With Glasses author, Marissa Walsh (and one of the coolest literary chicks in town), I've learned to embrace my glasses. They're a part of me now. Though, not super comfortable when dancing, showering, schlepping, shooting laser beams from pupils, winning eye pageants, or other various eye-centered activities, but they're mine and they rock.

Level 4: Loss of place

I don't know about you, but it pretty much sucks when you feel like you have to play guitar, so you lay down on a park picnic table, only to have a huge ass tree land between your legs.  Just me?

Level 5: Loss of sanity
Writing makes me crazy. Crazy makes me write. Make me write crazy. Me write make crazy.

Level 6: Loss of life
I kid, mostly, but this post was inspired by the recent death of an old friend + the ever present memory of my father. In the everyday grind, it's easy to miss moments, take things for granted, assume you'll live forever. But the truth is, right now is all that's certain. The past is gone, stuck in your memory and tomorrow promises nothing. Life is stuck on fast forward, the moments flying by. Dream your dreams, work hard to make them happen through sunshine and rain and above all else Never. Lose. Yourself.

7-21-04
"Cut the line to make me feel alive"
-The Used

What have you lost recently? 
Share with me, then press play. 
Because you're not alone.

-Candyland. Out.

The Motherload hath cometh...

My sweet, sassy blog gurrrl, Tawna Fenske had a contest awhile back. Some of you may remember, some of you, Bert help you, missed out. To re-cap the once-in-a-lifetime contest, READ HERE and be prepared to gasp.

Gasping yet? How about your pulse, is it racing? Well I don't blush easily, and neither does Tawna so lucky for me, Matt the Cat drew my name. Remember?

Matt's THE dude of all dudecats

Okay. Now that we're all caught up.Yesterday, after an exhausting night of barely sleeping, my droopy eyes peered into the mailbox where this had arrived:

Hello. I'm Mr. Stop. I clog up your liquid alcohol in a smutty fashion.

Well, not EXACTLY like this, but unlike Tawna, I don't write offbeat romantic comedies so I'm not sure I could get away with the thing in all its, err, natural glory. So anyway, thank you Tawna for this prestigious award. I'll be sure to put it front and center when company comes.

Aside from hand-carved body parts in my mailbox, you can run over to Choco's blog where I guested, spilling the ultimate guide for concert-goers.

How not to suck: Special band edition

I'm still recovering from love bubbles in my belly from Bert, and plan to see him again this weekend. Wow. Sounds like we're in a relationship. Pretty sure that's called psychotic (but I don't think I care). Music is a funny thing. It makes you fall in love with the person behind the words. Something I can only dream of doing with my novel(s). Maybe soon, I'll be someone's Bert. *unrolls the pouty lip*

How about you? If you had a phallic wine stopper, would you display in front of company? More importantly, can I be *your* Bert?


Candyland (and Mr. Stop)
OUT.

GUTS, baby: JUST DO IT

This weekend, I saw my (pretend) lover from another mother, the king of all things awesome, my pretend BFF, the one, the only RoBERT McCracken, with The Used. And let me tell you something, it was beautiful. I mentioned in an earlier post what a d-bag I was three years ago... *shudders*

3 Years ago...

And again...

For those of you not yet familiar, my current darling, 9:59 REWIND, talks of do-overs and rewind buttons. If one had come my way three years ago, needless to say, Bert and I would now be married with seven kids and he'd probably already have left me for another eager groupie. Wait...not the analogy I was going for. 

Anyway. While listening to one of three opening bands, I searched the merch table, debating whether or not to purchase the meet-n-greet pass. For $15 I could re-do the awful first encounter, hoping he wouldn't remember the yuppie from the weird post Saint Patty's day tour stop. My best dude threw $20 in my face, so I went for it, (not to say I'd do anything for cash...). The knots in my stomach churned, the voices in my head went all kinds of crazy. The concert was amazing, of course, and the big reveal, on its way.

I stood in line, alone, for close to an hour, making my way closer and closer to the beautiful man and his minions. But something funny happened. I took a breath and walked over, and totally redeemed myself.

Bert: Hi.

Me: Hi, how are you? *smiles obnoxiously* (Great opener if I say so myself)

Bert: I'm good. How are you?*smiles* (He's obviously brilliant)

Me: Good.

*Pause*

Me: I actually met you three years ago in Dayton.

Bert: Yeah, I remember (he says with a totally straight face, looking into my soul).

Me: What? (about to pee) You do not!

Bert: Yeah, actually I do. You have one of those memorable faces. *smiles*

*Pause for staring/finding anti d-bag words*

Me: I didn't have glasses then *lifts glasses off face*

Bert: I know! I said I remember you! *still smiling*

Me: Well, I was a d-bag then, so this is like, my do-over.

Bert: *Shakes head no* So this is your moment to shine?

Me: I hope so. Am I shining yet?

Bert: Yeah, I think you are *smiles*

*Pause for more staring because, to me, he's so pretty*

Bert: Okay, now spread 'em wide. 

Me: *Eyes burst open, mouth gapes, heart stops*

Bert: Your purse. Spread your fingers on the purse. So I can sign. *smiles*

Me: Still gaping*

Bert: Seriously. I need you to spread your fingers.

Me: *Laughs flirtatiously, probably flipping hair*

Bert: *Still smiling*

Me: *HUGE sigh and butterflies and heart thumps*

So here we are. *Hearts*

So after all of that, not only did he remember me, but I wasn't the biggest loser I'd thought I was three years later. We internalize more than we should, and as a writer, obsessing over every rejection, query, etc, I'm not doing myself ANY favors. Just let go. Never let fear hold you back. From anything. Listen to your gut and use it with confidence. Believe in yourselves, my sweethearts. Whether it's over a rock star or your novel, take a breath and just do it.

What's holding you back? 
Anything you wish you could do-over? 
And more importantly, who's your "Bert?"

Candyland (and Bert) OUT.

Feel me up Friday Awards: Dead bodies, High School and Schmoopie...

Last night, I remembered why I hate the park. Aside from the obvious, (I dislike sweating, the sun and outdoors in general), today I found a treasure trove of super cool loot. When I say "super cool," I mean "gross."

Discovery #1: The river smelled like dead bodies. I mean, considering where we live, I guess it's possible.

Discovery #2: A condom wrapper. Next to a picnic table. By the road. Really people?

Discovery #3: A mangled squirrel corpse next to the flowers 3yo was picking. Its eyes were missing and I stepped on its tail a hundred yards back.

However, the reasons I go to the park far outweigh the reasons I don't, despite my lack of hoo-rah-si-ness (yeah, it's a word now.so deal with it).

Reason #1: I go for my darling daughter. Nuff said.

Anyway, this week, the music reminded me of the days I use to play and how similar querying and performing are. Your soul, exposed. Your heart, open. People can accept or reject it. It's tough, I know since I woke up to ANOTHER rejection. *sighs*

And then another revelation: Watching life pass you by, in the park or on the computer, is even harder. Time flies. Now, my baby's growing up faster than I'm ready. It feels the same when letting go of a query. Sometimes all you can do is nurture it, love it and let it go.

Now onto the feel-ups.


Random Fact: If you knew me in high school (chances are you didn't. Lucky you.), you wouldn't have seen the confident (I'm a faker), hilarious (mildly laughable), headless Candyland you know today. In the halls of MHS, between Yearbook where I did nothing right and Mass Communications where I did nothing at all, a smaller, (in both size and weight. By about twenty pounds. Yikes. That sounds like a lot. Because it is. I need to go on a diet. Anyway...) louder version of me pranced around dreaming of superstardom and big city lights. If you'd have known me in high school, you'd have seen a slight resemblance to a certain Catholic school girl.

Random Fact: The hubs and I have a code word we use to use in uncomfortable situations. An animal. I can't say it, or you'll know when we use it. We also call each other Schmoopie and have a secret handshake. Sick yet?

And the award for being super awesome, given to me by the lovely Stina Lindenblatt, goes to:

Megan Rebekah

Dianne Salerni

Jaydee Morgan

Patti Nelson

Solvang Sherrie

Talli Roland

Alliterative Allomorph

Now that you know me a little better than last week, tell me friends: What were you like in high school? Compared to now???


Candyland. Ooouuutttttttt.

Feel me up Friday Awards: He did it, then confessed...

Something happened yesterday. Yes, something. I want to stress the importance of NEVER GIVING UP.

You've heard it, you've said it, but do you believe it?

My Sourcebooks high has started to wither and my old friend self-doubt has rented a room in my subconscious, nagging, dragging and tearing me down. I looked at my work and thought, "Ughhh...no wonder no one wants this crap." Tossing it aside, I joined YaLitChat's Twitter chat Wednesday and realized just how many of us there are, trying to break through. My eyes stung from the many posts about queries, agents and everything in between. So many talented, aspiring authors, how could I possibly stand out?

I went to bed with more fear and negativity than I had in a long, long time, wondering if this really is one pathetic dream. My goals, to write books that say something and inspire my daughter to dream big, may be another pipe dream. Like the time I thought I could impress Bert. Or the time I thought I could win the Boyz II Men dance contest.

We see how well those panned out.

I want you to know, you're not alone. When you feel these things, these monsters, eating the faith in yourself away, just know I feel it too, despite my silly butt posts. I moped around most of the day yesterday after another query rejection. But then it happened. A surprise email from an agent, who found my blog, read my excerpt and SHE contacted ME.

Things like that don't happen to ME. They don't. Maybe something comes from it, maybe not, but the feeling was exactly what I needed to soldier on.

It's been a long year. Inspired by Kiersten White's brutal honesty, I'm stripping bare (but fully clothed) for this Feel Me Up Friday.

Random Fact: Much like Kiersten, I too have been trying to get another bun in my oven for some time now. I suffered a miscarriage last September at 5 weeks. Lost a part of my soul that day and haven't found it since. She struck a nerve when I read her post, and it's been sitting with me so I thought I'd get it out of my system. That's what we writers do, spill out pain/joy/etc into print.

My 3yo, Lilliana HOPE, is my reason for breathing. I live and I DREAM BIG, for me, as well as for her. Hopefully someday, we'll have the joy of welcoming another, be it a child, or my debut novel.

Random Fact (that isn't depressing): When I was fifteen, I dated a Mormon. He felt me up the day my appendix burst when I was home from school. Mom thought I was faking but I totally showed her! After I left the hospital I get a call from him saying we had to go to church. I thought, "fine, okay, whatever."

When we get there, he pulls me into a room. With the Bishop. To confess. We talked about said "feel-up" and promised never to do it again. Needless to say, I got a new boyfriend, who wasn't Mormon, if you know what I mean.

And onto bigger and better now that you've felt me up too. A new award! Thanks to Alliterative Allomorph, my fellow rocker chick, who passed this along. Now it's my turn to do the same.

But, there are rules. Ahem. 
-Every winner of the Prolific Blogger Award has to pass on this award to at least seven other deserving prolific bloggers. Spread some love!
-Each Prolific Blogger must link to the blog from which he/she has received the award.
 -Every Prolific Blogger must link back to This Post, which explains the origins and motivation for the award.
 -Every Prolific Blogger must visit this post and add his/her name in the Mr. Linky, so that we all can get to know the other winners.


And Winners are...
Casey McCormick
Matthew Rush
Talli
Middle Child
Sherry Salach
Valerie
Tawna Fenske

Thank you to everyone who reads. You are all beautiful. Happy Friday.
Candyland. Out.
*Bowing*

Breaking News: LiLa to now go by LiLaCa (Re-post)

Before I even begin to delve into a super sweet interview with two of my favs, Lisa and Laura Roecker, I'd like to first give a big "Aww Shucks" to Matt the Cat who drew my name in an epic, momentous contest. To see my prize, CLICK HERE and read Tawna Fenske's hilarious post. Or HERE to read all about Matt and his furry, awesome name-picking.

Second, if you're curious about my face, (and I'm sure it's the ONLY thing you think about all day), check out my girl Sheri Larsen's blog to see an interview of moi. 

 Ahem. Now back to biznass. Around the blog-o-sphere there's a few familiar names that feel like family. Two of which, Lisa and Laura Roecker, are celebrating 500+ followers today, on their blog, Lisa and Laura Write. I'm told there will be prizes, so roll over and wish them a happy 500. After you read this, of course...

How did you know writing as a team would be better than solo?

It was never really an option for us to write alone. It just seemed about a million times more fun and a zillion times less scary to try it together.

And your process of writing is definitely a team effort. Who's the main idea maker? (Fight it out, if you must)

Lisa is known as the idea whore. Most of our concepts and plots are born in her very twisted brain. But Laura has been giving her a run for her money lately. The plot of Book 2 in the LIAR SOCIETY series stems from an idea Laura came up with. 

With small children, and I know what that's like, how do you maintain focus? 

Um...if you figure that out can you let us know? Honestly, we don't sleep much at all. And we have MommyFail days where we get lots of writing done, but are pretty crappy mothers. Of course the opposite is true too, there are days where we should be nominated as mother-of-the-freaking-year and we get zero writing done. Mostly we've learned that it's a give/take.

Was there ever a time where you thought, even for a second, “What a ridiculous idea. This will never happen?”

Oh yes. Lots and lots of times. But the great thing about being part of a team is that usually when one person says that the other person says, "Come on, we've go this. Let's just write another book."

Your book, LIAR SOCIETY, (Sourcebooks), is due out this spring. What will you do to celebrate?

We plan on eating lots of Twizzlers and drinking bottle after bottle of Prosecco. And then we're going to hang out in bookstores and force people to buy our book. It's going to be really fun as long as we don't get arrested.

What sparked the idea for LIAR SOCIETY? How long did it take to write?

The idea was actually sparked by Lisa asking herself, "What would happen if I sent an e-mail to someone who had died and they actually wrote me back." At first we thought it might be a story about a boyfriend and girlfriend, but when we started to get to know Kate we knew it had to be her best friend. The first draft took us under two months to write, and another couple months to revise.

Are either of you, uh, liars?

Lisa is the biggest liar EVER. Laura used to get so pissed when she'd get away with lies in high school, but no one ever believed her when she tried to rat Lisa out. See, the key is to being a liar is to be a really GOOD liar.

I'm pretty sure we were separated at birth. Had I grown up with you, what kinds of things would we have done together, as an awesome trio?

We are the queens of mediocrity. We played tennis well enough to land spots on the varsity doubles teams, but not well enough to play first singles. We managed to get decent grades, but nothing that was going to get us a scholarship or even honor roll. (Candlyland never made it either...)

We were funny, but too shy and insecure to be completely ourselves in school. (Me too) If you would have hung out with us in our formative years you would have ended up having a lot of late night sleepovers where we laugh so hard someone pees and we try to sneak out to see boys. (Candyland laughed so hard she peed too...this is getting weird)

You would have ended up going to all the cool parties, but spending a lot of time trying to look like you're having fun instead of actually having fun. (Hated those parties. Would rather have been home watching Golden Girls) And you would have been driven to school in one of our shitty ass cars where you had a 50/50 chance of getting there on time and a 100% chance of your car to emitting a foul blue smoke that flooded the entire parking lot. 

If you weren't writers, what would you be?

Depressed housewives.

Writing rituals?

We have this really annoying thing where Lisa plots out part of the book and Laura grills her with questions trying to poke plot holes. This almost always results in a fight.

How'd you snag your agent, Catherine Drayton at Inkwell Management?

Well, the first time we queried her she requested 50 pages of our manuscript and promptly rejected us. We were devastated because she was our dream agent. We'd both just read THE BOOK THIEF and as soon as we saw InkWell's website and read Catherine's bio we just knew she was the agent for us. Sadly, someone forgot to mention this to her. 

Anyways, by the time we wrote our second book Lisa had convinced herself that Catherine would never, ever be our agent, so Laura had to talk her into even sending the query. But we sent it. She requested our full manuscript, loved it and offered representation a week later. 

How long was LIAR SOCIETY on submission before the amazing Sourcebooks team picked it up?

5 LONG months. Being on sub to publishers is a very special kind of hell.

Favorite bands:

The Beatles, Glee (does that count?), Violent Femmes, Regina Spektor

Advice for aspiring writers?

Never say die.

Tune into to Lisa and Laura's blog to see firsthand who the stronger Roecker is. 
 I bet it's me...

Grab your copy of Liar Society 3/1

Introducing LiLaCa

Candyland. OUT.