Aliens and Technology

So last week, was good. I signed the contact for True North and was told my release date is 10/1/11. Yay. It’s eBook which now that I have a Kindle is the only kind of book I myself purchase but unfortunately, my family still doesn’t consider that being published. I’ve read quite a few news articles this week about the collapse of the publishing industry thanks to Amazon (and said Kindle) but I don’t think it will ever die completely, do you? I think that would be sad. Partly because I still want to see my book on a shelf in a store and partly because there are just some aspects of our lives that technology should stay out of. There’s this show called Falling Skies (my husband is a huge alien person so he makes me watch all this stuff) about an invasion and the first thing they did was disable all of our technology, electricity, everything. So people have to adjust to life without computers and phones. I love this show and not for the alien aspect. I love it for the social aspect. Things are upside down. People like, pretty much everyone I work with are useless. They are nothing, have no meaningful skills to keep themselves alive. Now people like mechanics and construction workers are the invaluable ones. It’s very interesting to see society flip like that and I think the show is very well written and well done. Just FYI, here’s the link to the website: http://www.tnt.tv/series/microsite/fallingskies/

I’m really going to try and promote True North. I think it’s a good story, something different at least, and I really want to make some money for my publisher since they continue to support me despite my shortcomings. I’m finishing up FireFlys and will be submitting that to TLT Publishing. I really want to be a part of that family and I’m just praying that I’m good enough.

Welp, that’s about it for now. Hope everyone has a good week!

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Waiting to Wake up

I think there’s something wrong with me. No, like, really wrong with me. I feel like I’m walking around in a dream waiting to wake up and live. Everything is either too difficult or too simple. There is this state of mind called contentment. It’s this perfect harmony of well being where you don’t lie in bed at night and worry about everything, and you don’t look in the mirror and want to vomit, and you don’t have to force yourself to put the brush down so that you don’t beat yourself in the head until you are bloody with it. I couldn’t be further away from that state of mind. Okay, now, to be clear, I’m not sad. I love my husband and my son. But I’m just…I don’t know. Hell, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know what is wrong with me.

Things are really hard right now since my husband lost his job and we’re having a hard time (meaning we’re not) keeping up with the bills. I haven’t had to worry about money stuff in a while and it freaking sucks. I mean it’s this all consuming worry that makes it hard for me to breathe. And I’m so mad about stupid little things. Things like, I didn’t get to do anything for my birthday, and I can’t get my hair done (see above about the beating in the head with the brush), and I can’t eat out for lunch. I’m so mad about these things. Downright resentful.

And then there’s work and all I’m going to say about that is never, ever, ever, ever work for your best friend. EVER.

So again, I’m back to waiting to wake up because this has to be a dream. This cannot be my real life. This…thing…that I do day after day, this has to be some sort of alternate reality and any moment now I’m going to wake up in my cozy and romantic bed with tall tapered posts draped in sheer silk, on the second floor of my country style cottage in Bryceville. I’ll roll to the left and see a copy of my most recent novel sitting on my nightstand and then roll back to the right and see the handsome face of my peaceful and employed husband. Any moment now.

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Thick Skin

To be an author you’ve got to have some thick skin. Reviewers slam you, agents tell you no, doors are shut in your face, but you have to keep going. These things don’t bother me. I’m all about a bad review because it makes me a better writer. Every no I get from an agent is one more answer closer to a yes. I’ve been told I’m thickheaded so maybe that’s why the whole door slamming business doesn’t faze me either.

For me, the hardest thing to endure is my own self-doubt. There are various people in my life that contribute to this, but really it’s all me. This is what aggravates me about me. So, yes, we’re broke. My husband lost his job and we’re just barely getting by. I use this as an excuse for everything. Why won’t I go to the writer’s conference here locally? We can’t afford it. Why won’t I take some classes? We can’t afford it. And to be honest, no, we can’t afford it but I can still find ways to make myself a better writer. There are plenty of online groups, conferences, forums and other such things I could take advantage of.

I have a lot to learn. Since I tried to commit suicide my senior year, college just wasn’t in the cards for me. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted to get a job and get out of my house. Well, I did. And now here I am...a lot… of years later and though I’ve made peace with myself, I really wish I had an education. I have a strong connection to YA because it’s probably the only thing that got me through those months when my world was so dark. I want to write YA for YA, not like most of it is these days and YA for adults that like YA. I want to reach out from the pages and give that reader a place to escape and a glimmer of hope, that things won’t stay the way they are forever, even if it feels that way.

I’m going to keep at it, oh don’t you worry about that. I’ll always keep at it because writing is my escape and glimmer of hope that things won’t stay the way they are now forever, even if it feels that way.

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A Little Reminder

STOP. Before you continue, it is imperative that you read this or you will not understand a word I’m saying. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

http://christytrujillo.blogspot.com/2009/06/inventory.html

The question is… “Who am I?” The answer is of course very simple and was there all along. I am…me. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t know who I was, it’s that I didn’t like who I was. There was this person that would stare back at me from the mirror and I would cringe. You’re ugly, you’re stupid, you’re nothing, I would tell the girl. She never fought back and the abuse continued. Then the girl would foolishly turn to those around her and expect them to fix her. Being “Their daughter, her friend, his girlfriend, his wife, his mom” was just an excuse to avoid being the only thing I could be which was and is, MYSELF. Since this post I have published two novels and am currently finishing the third in my series. Fate has been a very large part of these books and somewhere in between Emmy’s Heart and the first few chapters of Sarah’s Fate I managed to find Christy’s courage. The courage to look within myself for happiness because, honey, the only person that can make you happy…I mean truly happy, is you. And before you can love someone else…I mean truly love them, you have to learn to love yourself. And I have. Do I still have my days? Of course. I’m still a girl. But now when I look around me I see my parents, and my BFF, and my honey, and my son and I am happy.

For my 31st birthday I have decided to get a tattoo of the word believe over the scar on my wrist. Why believe? Because that’s all we have. The only thing that cannot be taken away from us is our ability and capacity to believe. Believe in fate, in God, in love, in unicorns, in vampires. Without that, without something to hold onto and believe in, what are we? What do we have but empty spaces inside of us longing to be filled? So now when I’m brushing my teeth or putting on my Twilight bracelet I won’t see a scar. I’ll see my husband’s face, and my son’s smile. I’ll hear Maria laughing and Courtney talking in her funny guy voice, (you really should hear that, it’s hilarious) and think the words ‘published author’ because at the end of the day, I believe in me.

I will never forget my first love or the pain I felt and I’m glad. Because without that, without everything I’ve been through, what the hell would I write about? ;)

Hi, I’m Christy. I’m a published author with a “gift for tense and revealing dialogue” (I didn’t write that, it’s from a review of Emmy’s Heart) and more stories to tell. I’m the mother of a great kid and the wife of a very hardworking man. I’m friends with some amazing girls (and guys) and am happy to say, have stopped abusing the girl in the mirror. It's nice to meet you.



Update...

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A Real Broken Heart

Being told by one's mother to stay the hell away from her, that you are a (insert inappropriate curse word here) idiot and that she doesn’t care what you do from here on out would be upsetting to most folks. And while I was upset on May 31st when I was told these things by mine, I am unfortunately used to it. All of my life I have been at the mercy of her verbal berating. From being told I was a slut and a bitch in high school to being told that I should drive my car off the road because my son would be better off with her for a mother (in front of my son who was seven at the time) more recently, she’s always been like that. Now if it was just a simple matter of her hating me, well, I might be able to come to terms with that and let it go…but no. There are always sporadic stints of wonderful thrown in to make the not so wonderful fade until of course it happens again and I’m left to wonder what the hell I’ve done wrong…again. This time it all came down to furniture. She was unhappy with the way that I chose to use the dresser she gave me (Cameron) when Cameron was born. Please note – we purchased him brand new furniture when we moved in our new home, furniture which he threw a fit for. The dresser she gave us was in the spare room and well, that was just unacceptable. There’s more, of course. I don’t appreciate anything she does for me. Frankly, other than saying thank you (which I do) sending flowers (which I’ve done), and dedicating my first FREAKING novel to her, I really don’t know how I’m supposed to show said appreciation.

We’re not speaking right now, I told my dad that I couldn’t deal with her until she was off her pain meds (which I think she is addicted to and are making her extra special crazy) and we are just making concessions until school is over as she has watched my son up until this point. Clearly, that’s over now though. There are two sides to every story, I’m not perfect and I’m sure I’ve done something unforgivable at some point but I can promise you this folks, when she is old and alone and she realizes that she threw me away because of furniture she will regret it. But it will be too late then. Way too late.

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There is a scene in Sister Act 2 that plays over and over in my mind when I start to doubt myself as a writer (so basically, like, all the time) where Whoopi is talking to Lauren Hill who is having a hard time admitting she is a singer and in this conversation she says:

"…Don't ask me about being a writer. lf when you wake up in the morning you can think of nothing but writing...then you're a writer.
I'm gonna say the same thing to you. If you wake up in the mornin' and you can't think of anything but singin' first...then you're supposed to be a singer. Girl."

While I do love to sing, what I think about when I wake up is finding time that day to sit down and write. I begin to scheme about eating lunch at my desk and getting Cam to bed early. I think about my characters and listen as they have funny conversations that play out in my head. I obsess over everything I write as I didn’t go to college and just recently learned that cannot is one word and can’t spell for poop. So, according to Whoopi (or the writers of Sister Act 2) I’m meant to be a writer. Now, to be clear, no one said anything about getting paid to be a writer, they just said that in my heart, to give my soul a voice and live my life to the fullest, I need to write. So…I write. And then I delete. And then I write again. And then I cry because it sucks.
But, I write because that is who I am, what I want to be, and the legacy I want to leave.

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Paper Cuts

If you follow this blog, which would be damn near a miracle in and of itself, you are aware that I have begun to print large documents at my day job. Let me say, it is not nearly as bad as I thought it would be as all the peeps I work with are totally stepping up to the plate and taking responsibility for their own stuff, but it’s still not the best thing in the world. I’ve already got some paper cuts and looking down at the microscopic serrations of my skin I had a thought.

Most of my ‘problems’ are paper cuts.

Annoying, sometimes painful, little things that inhibit my day-to-day routine for a week or so and then heal up. Isn’t it funny how those little cuts are all we can think about when they first happen, be it the pain when they come in contact with water when we wash our hair or the funny feeling when we type, but after a while, we forget where they even were. I look around me and see people with downright gashes in their skin, and they don’t whine as much as I do, or complain as much as I do. Shame on me, right. Yeah, shame on me. Like my granny always said, “Well, you can just scratch your tail and get glad.” (I don’t know, I grew up on a dirt road people.)

Things could always be worse. I still have my little sticky that says blessed in my line of sight. I also have 3 things that say believe (4 if you count my wrist) so when I start to get down about my little paper cuts I always have something reminding me to stop feeling sorry for myself. Look around. Are you dealing with paper cuts or gashes? Either way, you’ll find the strength. We always do.

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