Marissa Turner

“‘Cause she’s liable to grow up mean.”  I love Poe.  So, I’m rocking out to Poe and The Clash (figure out that love affair) and printing out GENTRY.  That’s right, I FINALLY got the edits put in last night and am now waiting for my printer to feed everything through.  And then it’s gonna sit until Sunday.  While my husband watches the Steeler game, I’m going to be curled up with GENTRY and the Red Pen of Death.

I have the butterfly feeling in my stomach about this.  I’m going to start submitting Clio and the gang to agents next month.  I gave myself one more month to polish and clean it up, before throwing her out to the wolves (so to speak).  I want it to soar, but I have enough of a reality check to know that first time queries ever get picked up by the first agent you send it to, and it doesn’t hit the NYT #1 on it’s virgin run.  I’m not expecting to take the NYT #10 slot, ever. 

But I’d like to be able to make a living off my writing, not a rich one, but one that I won’t worry about me or Thunder Butt starving next month. 

And now the butterflies are procreating in my belly.  Great visual.

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My great-grandmother died Saturday.  She was ninety years old on the sixteenth of this month.  Born in 1918, she lived a full life.  One of twelve children, ten of which have passed.  Two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, Iraq, the Cold War.  The Depression.  She outlived two husbands, two great-grandsons, and four great-great-grandchildren.

She was ready to go, but that doesn’t mean we were ready to let her go.  I won’t pretend we had a great relationship.  It’s been years since I last saw her. 

She was family.  I think the stubborn streak that runs through the women in my family came down from her; my great-great-grandmother was made a widow while pregnant with her last child and never remarried.  My great-grandmother had a third grade education, but she made the best of what she had I believe.

Life ain’t fair, and I know that, but I don’t have to like it.

D’s husband came home from Iraq yesterday, and now my house is completely full.  Assorted adults, two kids, and a dog.  Plus the assorted stuff that goes with each person.  And one said child has a taste for puzzles; she’ll unmake it, then make it again.  Which is funny, until she undoes large chunks of 1000 piece me, her mother, and now her father have been working on. 

I’ve let Clio sit for awhile after the third editing, now it’s time to pick her up again and see how she reads.  Hopefully this is the last time through, as I’m just about to stake the book and drape with garlic and sprinkle holy water on it.  The damn novel will not rest!  Of course, Clio can be a real bitch, so she just doesn’t want to lie there happily.

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Does anyone remember getting those handouts at the beginning of the school year?  The syllabus?  Remember how it had dates of tests, vacations, etc?

Apparently, one of my instructors doesn’t know how to follow one.  I have scheduled my tests for my other two classes (which I do online) around that syllabus.  She moved a test from next week up to this week, thus screwing the rest of the year.

“We’ve gone over the two chapters, we can take the test Wednesday.”  At which point, my entire class wanted to lynch her in the parking lot. 

I did get the second round of edits for Cliodhna done yesterday.  Both mine, and that of one of the editors, have been added to the MS.  Time for another print out and read through.  I keep wondering if it’s good enough; I think it’s perfect, but I’m biased.  D. read through, and edited, and knows me well enough to tell me if something is shit.  She reads books along the same line that Clio is in, and everything else she can get her hands on, so there’s a lot she can compare it to. 

I’ve found that the best thing a writer can have in their corner is a well-read editor. 

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I’ve said before that, while the Olympics are fun, I don’t think the standing of a nation should be based upon it’s athletes.  It’s like basing the cleanliness of a house on it’s pipes, just doesn’t make sense (at least not to me).

That being said, I am glued to my screen during the swimming heats.  I will confess to knowing one name (Michael Phelps) but that doesn’t distract from the awe I feel.  They make it look so easy.  I stayed up to watch the 200 butterfly semifinals (I cannot do the butterfly, no idea why, but the dolphin kick eludes me) and sat that, slack-jawed, as Phelps kicked ass in the last turn.

Which is why my edits didn’t get done last night, I crammed them in today before work.

I used to love the gymnastics, and figure skating.  But something about the swimming has always captivated me.

I’ll blame it on being a water sign.

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