Shannon Stacey
The Joy of Pessimism

I’ve taken some pretty hard whacks from my friends this evening for my natural proclivity toward being negative. *rubs sore spot and glares*

It’s genetic! I swear it. You should all meet my family someday–most especially my father’s side. There are glass half-full people and glass half-empty people, right?

Well, in my family, the glass is half-empty until you knock it off the table and it smashes. When you try to pick up the glass, you cut your finger badly enough for stitches. While in the hospital you pick up a lovely bacterial infection. After a horrific allergic reaction to the antiobotic, you’re stuck in a hospital bed with puffy eyes and a yeast infection. Housekeeping moves your bed ten feet to the left so she clean up the coffee you spilled–and no, they won’t give you another one. The candystripers, who are analyzing last night’s episode of American Idol, mistake you for the patient who was supposed to be ten feet to the left and take you up to surgery, where they amputate your right leg. The next morning you wake up and get out of bed to go pee. But your right leg’s gone, so you fall down, hitting your head on the metal bedside stand, knocking over that day’s ration of coffee, and die.

“Why don’t you go watch TV or something. You probably won’t get that part in the school play anyway.” Or “I’ll do it myself. You’re just going to screw it up, Shan.” Or (and this is my favorite) “I don’t know why you bother. Nothing good ever happens to us.”

Really, I’m surprised that I’ve actually submitted things, been rejected and submitted again. *g*

How did I get to be friends with a bunch of optimists, anyway?

I don’t know, but now when I hear “Nothing good ever happens to us,” I say “Speak for yourself” because look who I have in my corner

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Out of the mouths of rotten kids

(Obligatory backstory digression: My boys are well-versed in the “no-touch” body parts, but they also have a very well-developed, expanded sense of personal space because their mother doesn’t think you have to go around groping genitals to be creepy. Any touch that makes them uncomfortable should be reported to their vicious, overly-caffeinated Mama Bear. For lack of anything more original, we call this their “space”.)

The rotten short kid and I ducked into the library to exchange the movies he’s watched 982 times in the last 3 days. The librarian and the children’s librarian had read a historical novel for a book club, and they were interested in my take on it. (I was the children’s librarian there before said rotten short kid was born, so they’re pretty familiar with my reading tastes.) So, she put a copy on the desk for me.

Rotten short kid: My mom won’t like that book. She only reads books with nakie people on them.

Librarian: Reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaally?

Rotten short kid: Well, sometimes they have clothes on, but they’re touching all over each other’s spaces.

*shaking head*

I keep my EC paperbacks up on a shelf, because I walked into the room a few months ago and found the tall kid and my husband both motionless and open-mouthed, transfixed by a Victoria’s Secret commercial. They looked like drooling bookends. Geez, he’s only 9.

But I’ve got Blazes and Temptations and Bravas–oh my!–laying around the house. Or maybe lying around the house. Laying…lying…scattered around the house. (That’s exactly how I do it in my manuscripts, too. Just find another word.)

I swear, I can’t take the rotten short kid anywhere.

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Hi-ho, manuscript, awaaaaaaay

The snap is good. The kick is away. Ball’s in the air. Only time will tell if it’s a field goal or a punt, but it feels really good to be off the freakin’ bench again.

Until I remember something I wanted to change or needed to fix, and then I’ll feel ill. But for now I’m going to stop mixing my Lone Ranger and football metaphors and go…clean my bathroom or something.

Actually I’m going to call the husband and tell him a customer called in with a furnace problem, but I let the machine take it because I was trying to make sure I hadn’t used the same word in the same paragraph too many times in a sex scene.

I’m sure they’ll understand. Despite the 20-below wind chill.

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Auf Wiedersen

Arabella Magazine is now officially closed. I’m sure everybody saw this coming as the loops had a lot of questions about them, but no answers, for what seems like at least six months now.

I feel badly for my fellow writers who were looking foward to seeing their short stories in print. I’ve had a couple of target markets close up their doors on me, but never after I sold to them. I know it happens, but it seems really unfair. (I know–Life Isn’t Fair Blah Blah Blah)

I probably won’t personally miss them too overly much, as I was never able to get my hands on an issue to begin with. Supposedly, Borders was supposed to carry it, but I never saw an issue there. Or anywhere.

You know, it surprises me that RT doesn’t include a short romantic story in each issue. Or a short short and a longer, serialized piece.

I’m dying to know more about Lady Jaided, the new magazine Jaid Black is putting together. She’s mentioned it on her blog a couple of times, but I think I missed the beginning of the conversation. Coming from the Queen of Steam, it should be interesting!

No school today, which puts us all in a lazy, jammy mood, but I’m off to do something productive. *eye roll*

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Shannon Vs. Word Spellcheck

The words we’re beefing about today:

poufy–Okay, I just can’t spell. It’s pouffy. (Which doesn’t look right)
fogey–This round to me. (All rounds scored by dictionary.com)
clotheslining–another to me
dustbunnies–according to dictionary.com, round to spellcheck, but I like it the way it is. Impasse.
dammit–round to me.
piddly–round to spellcheck, but I’m keeping it anyway.
undies–mine. Obviously. Stupid spellcheck.
Tauruses–round to spellcheck, but how else do you refer to more than one Ford Taurus?
recaffeinate–round to spellcheck, but this should be a word, and since my heroine’s using it and would say something like that, I’m keeping it.
Dumbass–round to spellcheck, but dumb ass just looks wrong, so we’re at an impasse.
Rubbernecker–another round for me.

Total: (technically) Spellcheck: 6 Shannon: 5
(But I’m keeping them all except poufy–which still looks right)

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