Tuesday, December 30, 2008, 7:10 PM
What's a self-professed Twihard girl to do when the characters from the books won't get the frell out of her mind?
Write fan fiction, of course.
If you haven't read Breaking Dawn yet and don't want to be spoiled, stop reading now.~*~*~*~
Ever since reading Breaking Dawn in August, I've felt cheated.
Stephenie Meyer did a hair-yanking, pulse-pounding wonderful job (for me) fanning the slow burning build up of sexual tension between Edward and Bella during the first three books. Bella damn near faints after kissing Edward in Twilight. He gives her the first really dangerous kiss in New Moon. And then there's a body temperature raising scene involving hips in Eclipse.
So like any hot-blooded girl with more imagination than sense, I was counting on the pay-off in Breaking Dawn. Hungering for it, okay?
When that scene came, when Edward and Bella are finally naked and standing together in tropical water just a wee bumpy boat ride from the coast of Rio...Edward pulls her deeper into the water and the honeymoon scene goes white before anything goes down.
I've been fighting an irresistible compulsion to write their honeymoon scene ever since. I gave in to it two days ago. (Don't waste your time telling me how absurd I am for writing fan fiction. Trust me, I already know.)
The piece, which is called Unglued, is a oneshot because it's just one chapter and covers one scene/one moment, is just over 3500 words. I had such a blast writing it. I squealed, I giggled, I cried. I buried my face in my hands.
I had to take my socks off because I got so hot.
And, well, I haven't felt those kind of emotions as a writer in far too long.
So I haven't been writing here, but I have been writing and I feel all yaay-times-one-hundred about that. Now that my first piece is done, I'm itching to write another.
I guess Bella and Edward and the rest of the Cullens aren't going anywhere for a while...
This is a Holiday repost. I still read it and feel like Little Girly Me. And I owe it all to my Mommy Dearest, who never stopped long enough to collect her $200 when she passed Go. Nope, she was too dang busy wrapping presents and gagging over Santa's Oreos.I still remember the magic of the holidays as a girl, when I felt the presence of Santa's elves in the coat closet, those sneaky elves who hid between the leaves of Mom's ficas plant, even in the bread box. I remember trying to be extra good that last week before Santa was due, and worrying about my behavior of the past year. Was my name followed by a check mark on Santa's list? Had I been good enough for a new boom box, a pair of roller skates, and the latest Judy Blume book?
Falling asleep on Christmas Eve night was almost impossible. As much as I wanted Christmas Day to come, I didn't want the magic of Christmas Eve, the feelings of anticipation or the dreams of what was to come, to just...be over. This night was the best part of Christmas. And so I would lay in bed and stare at the olde-tyme jumbo multicolored lights in my bedroom window, wondering where Santa might be in the world at that moment. I had no idea how Santa managed to deliver so many presents to so many of us, but I was glad he did. And wow. Just wow.
I dreamed about a woman who had to give birth in a cold barn stable because there was no room for her in a warm house. I imagined a star in the sky brighter than all of the others. I wondered what it would be like if an angel materialized in front of me right then. I heard sleigh bells, smelled my mom's peanut butter fudge cooking on the stove, and felt the warmth of Santa's smile. And finally the night would wrap me in its arms and put me to sleep.
Every year, my sister and I would wake up hours before it was time for us to actually get up. We'd sit in bed and giggle about whether or not Santa had already made it to our house. Was it safe to sneak out to the living room yet? Could it be that he was here now?
We'd slide out of bed slowly and tiptoe exaggeratedly down the hallway, poking each other's arms at an escaped snicker or at the sound of an elbow scraping against the wall because walking on tiptoes and trying to be quiet seemed to make us clumsy. I was always hesitant about making the trek because I never wanted to actually see Santa. We weren't supposed to. What if seeing him destroyed that feeling of magic? Please, please, please don't still be here, I'd pray.
He never was. But he'd always been.
As we came around the hallway corner that led into the living room, we stepped into the warm light of the still-lit Christmas tree to see that once again, Santa had left too many presents to fit under it. Brightly-wrapped boxes with big bows sat next to Oogie's footstool, and were stacked up in front of the bookcase, everything spilling out at least five feet away from the TV. Two bean bags invited us to sit in them and examine the contents of our stockings. On the end table by the couch was a plate with a half-eaten brownie on it and an empty glass of milk. I always hoped Santa would come every year, but it was still a shock to see that he had, too.
And so here I am today, the same girl and yet not the same girl. It's been a rough year--hurtful in many ways--but I know I can always find my Christmas spirit by remembering the magic I used to feel, thanks to my mom. The little girl inside is still there.
All he wants
One of the funniest holiday memories I have is of the time I told Oogie that my ex-hubby wanted a hingeless screwdriver.
This is funny on a lot of levels, the first being that my ex never-never, never fricken ever, wanted presents. Oogie, my Mommy Dearest, is all about (un-subconsciously) vanquishing Scrooges and my ex was a prime specimen. (Okay, not that my ex was a Scrooge, he just thought if we're going to bankrupt ourselves during Christmas, we ought to do it over the kids who still believe in the idea of Santa...because otherwise, anyone "expecting" a present, or the idea of anyone "feeling they had to offer a gift" just made him growl. Spirit of Christmas and all...)
So anyway, I saw an infomerical on TV on what I thought would be a great gift idea for Oogie to get the ex. To this day, I have no idea what it was, but I thought it was a hingeless screwdriver. Something that came with an extension cord, that could be charged and used free-of-cord.
It wasn't until after Christmas that Oogie shared her woes of trying to locate the (unhinged) hingeless screwdriver.
"Everybody I asked looked at me like I didn't know what I was talking about," she said. "Some guy at Best Buy told me, "But, ma'am, ALL screw drivers are hingeless."
It was probably a "cordless" screwdriver I saw (and what Oogie ended up getting him). But neither she or I recognized that because neither of us knew a wrench from a screwdriver from a hinge!
I won't even go into the Menage a Trois wine I sent her after...
Yo, like, BOO
Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah-NYAH! So what! I'm still a rock star, I got my rock moves, but I haven’t felt like writing hooey-blooey lately, maybe because I wrote myself alllll out on the Twilight movie-to-book comparison. I was like one possessed while I wrote it.
Couldn’t stop thinking about it when I did anything else but writing about it (I tried). I simply HAD to get to the frigging end. Uh-huh, even though my body was aching and I was having trouble seeing the computer monitor because my eyes were crossing from staring at the ding-danged monitor for hours.
Um, why can’t I feel that way about my writing, my characters?
I have no answers lately. I am all about the questions.
[insert sound of frustration here]
If I had the answer for that, I'd be a much more happy camper here in effin We-Ho-Land. (Okay, so trying to care about something when you don't really care about much of anything is like trying to appreciate the sound a violin makes when the hairs on your arms are raising. I don't want to write about that stuff. How utterly boring.)
So yeah-yeah, I haven't written hooey-blooey lately. Not for lack of trying, though. I have lots of half-ass blog posts that smack of left-of-centeredness. Unhingey goodness that isn't actually all that good for public consumption. Consider yourself well-spared, nod and pretend like you know what I mean because if you're human, you've been there and all.
Anyfriggingway, as the days passed and no new entries were sent into the electronic cosmos, I'd think crap-crap-crap, haven’t written diddly and so what if you don’t feel like writing, Andi, the world’s not going to end if nobody reads your mind barfage. But it didn't really help, if you want to know the truth, and not because the world wasn't receiving my portion of so-called "greatness". I suffer in all kinds of ways when I don't write. Here, there or otherwise. It sucks, but I guess knowing this could be helpful because I know how to make it hurt less.
I have come to two unhappy conclusions:
1. I must get up extra early to write morning pages.
...morning pages are three pages of stream-of-consciousness longhand morning writing. You should think of them not as "art" but as an active form of meditation for Westerners. In the morning pages we declare to the world—and ourselves—what we like, what we dislike, what we wish, what we hope, what we regret, and what we plan.
(I have to stop gagging about this. Really. Must. Stop.)
2. After dutifully writing my morning pages, I should stretch. Strrrrretch. And breathe. Breathing is always good.
I don't know which exercise I shudder at most, but for Great Googly-Moogly's Sake and my sense of general well being (and my peace, love and happiness), I must do both of these things.
And, well, shit.
They (Hollywood's henchmen and hirelings-on, I guess) were filming an upcoming Adam Sandler movie (Funny People) in front of the building where I work! last week. There was no sign of Adam Sandler, though. No. Frigging. Sign. I can't believe I live in West Hollywood and the only claim I have of face-to-face celebrity-sighting is being stepped on by Rebecca DeMornay's asshole boyfriend at LAX.
In other news....
Wonder of wonders, women are still finding it difficult to pee in the toilet hole in the restrooms where I work. It's stupid of me to blog about this, but God! It makes me so MAD. The last woman I caught (who came out of the stall as I entered the restroom and that stall was the only unoccupied stall) looked like a PTA mom. How do these disgusting, sicko excuses function? Do they piss all over the seat and floor in their bathroom? I swear, next time I will go charging after someone just to ask this question.
"I work here!" I'll say in a non-accusing tone of comic steel. (How I'll manage this is anyone's guess. I'm open for suggestions.) "Would it kill you to wipe your pee off the seat so I don't feel like screaming, barfing or wasting my time wondering about the hygienic non-habits of skanks and rich bitches?"
Okay, so I probably shouldn't say the words skank or bitch. But I'll be thinking them the whole time and I'm sure it will be written on my face BIG time because how do you hide something like that? I'm not a politician. Every argen-fargen second I'll be fighting against myself to not to rip the woman's head off and shit down her neck.
SO WHAT! This is one of Pink's songs. I love it. Yeah! Happy Freaking Holidays, ya'll.
It’s more my style to complain about it anonymously to you lucky readers, heh, heh, heh. But sheeshus. Instead of finding wet toilet seats, I’d like to find a $20 bill. Just once, you know? Or twice, hey, I won’t complain.
My backspace key is still shot. Since I caved on finishing NaNoWriMo and forfeited my new keyboard, I do the raspberry when I mistype and unthinkingly press the ain't-working backspace key. It's fun. Yeah. Yeah. (Not.)
Life is ever so exciting. I can barely stands it, I tell you. (sorry, oogie)
Gaspa! Keanu is back in The Day The Earth Stood Still. Woo, baby.