Research

I’m not even going to mention the massive amount of time in between posts, because I’ve finally realized that I’m going to blog.  This is how I express myself, how I heal, and I love doing it.  Snobby girls from high school aren’t going to stop that, because honestly, they don’t matter to me, and they never should have.  Being cruel and tormenting obviously helped them deal with their “problems” in high school, and it sucks that I got the shit end of it, but right now, it’s causing me more issues to keep thinking about/re-hashing it than it would be to just let it go.  So this is me being done with their drama, their immaturity, and their bad life choices.  We all know who’s going to end up with a shitty life, but anywho.

I finally have my “quiet time” because the boys are both down for naps (though one keeps high pitched screaming, and the other is crawling underneath the crib to play), and I felt like writing about how I spend my “quiet time”.

Most days, I start and finish a book during naptime.  Today is one of those “eat a whole box of instant pudding” days, while I read a book.  The books that I’m reading are the trashy historical romance books, the ones centered around a man and woman in England, or Scotland, or Ireland, and their love, which is wrong to everyone.  They have the ten page long sex scenes, and then everything is alright in the end.

These books are my guilty pleasure.  They’re easy to read, easy to memorize the characters, and they always end the way they should: marriage and/or babies.

Before you judge me, I’m reading them for research (and for pleasure, of course).  I’ve a whole box to get through (with the raunchy painted covers of a studly man holding a woman with large breasts about to fall out of her dress, hair all over the place, her mouth in a passionate “O” and her eyes closed in rapture), courtesy of Stacia (I love them, thank you!), and I’m studying how they’re laid out, how the authors work realistic dialogue and situations into the storyline, and gathering ideas.

“For what”, you ask?

Well, you see, I’ve got it in my mind to try and write a romance novel.  Complete with the maiden who is in trouble, the dashing man who hates her, but saves her according to his sense of duty, the awful traitor who doesn’t turn out to be a traitor until the end, the raunchy sex scenes, and the happy, satisfying ending.

The hardest part will be the publishing, of course, but it shouldn’t be too difficult (if you have any tips on this, let me know!) to get a romance novel accepted and published.  I want to be a part of writing my guilty pleasure books!

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Creative Writing Essay “According to Plan”

According to Plan

She went into labor at 10 a.m.
I got the call on my private extension, a number known only by my wife and secretary, and when I picked up, I heard her. She was holding her breath in between breathy groans, and I could tell she was moving around a lot by the feedback through the phone.
“Baby,” she panted. “It’s time.”
I told her I would be there to pick her up as soon as possible, and was in the middle of telling her ‘I love you’ when she hung up. I gathered my briefcase, stuffed a packet of gum inside, grabbed my coat from the closet beside my desk, and hurried out of my office. As I was pushing the door open to the private garage, I turned and said to my assistant, who was hovering around me uselessly, “Two dozen snow-white lilies. They go to my wife in the hospital.” She nodded anxiously, and jotted my message down in the leather notepad I had gotten her for Christmas.
When I got to our house, a two-story building with a three-car garage attached that we had designed when we got married, I found her waiting for me outside, her hospital bag clutched tightly in her hand and a grimace on her face.
The front door was hanging wide open.
I helped her climb into the passenger seat, and was a bit worried at her white complexion. I rubbed my thumb across her cheek, and planted a gentle kiss on her chapped lips. I shut the car door, with more force than necessary, and went and closed the front door calmly.
The ride to the hospital was nerve-wracking; my normally calm wife was screaming obscenities with shattering intensity while gripping my free-hand with white knuckles. I squeezed back, not at all afraid she would break my fingers.
Finally, she was situated in a hospital bed screaming her head off because she was too far along in labor for medication like she had originally wanted. I felt terrible for not picking her up sooner, for not staying home so I could bring her to the hospital as soon as possible.
The birth went fast.
She was lying there dying as I welcomed my beautiful daughter to the world. I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for not knowing that she was fading so fast. The chaos that surrounded me, I assumed was normal.
After one long look at my beloved wife’s haggard face, I felt my daughter take a huge breath of air and let it out shakily.
It was her last.
I stood there, holding my beautiful daughter’s limp body, staring at my gorgeous wife’s face, tears slipping down my cheeks when the flowers were brought in. They were beautiful, of course, the best that money could possibly buy.
And they were the only thing that went according to plan.