It was a fun ride. Let’s just say I dove deep for this one. Pretty damn deep.

Here’s an excerpt from The Plan.

~~~

She flicks her hair. “I hate you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why’d do have to do it?” she asks. “Why on my birthday?” My sister wrinkles her nose. Her face looks wavy in the plastic wall that separates us. “That’s all they’ll remember now,” she says. “Not me. Just you and that gun.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.” She crosses her arms. Exhales. “He came by the house the other day.”

“Who?”

“That guy…the guy who keeps poking his nose into our business. Doing research on you or whatever for the court.” My sister laughs, a little chirping sound. “I think he thinks mom used to beat you or something. It’s pretty funny.”

I put a hand to my temple and watch the light. “Hilarious.”

~~~

Visit Pure Slush to read the entire story and Berit’s piece The Punishment. Special thanks to Editor Matt Potter and Ms. Ellingsen.

Write It Sideways – http://writeitsideways.com/

Written by Susannah Windsor, and often guest authored, this blog gives writing tips that are actually helpful. It’s probably one of the best blogs that when read I sit-up and pay attention . She also links to great resources and references.

I subscribe and about once a week enjoy a newsletter delivered to my in-box full of frothy writerly goodness.

Great. Now I want a cappuccino.

The Hunger Games

"There's murder inside me."

I finished this book in about 4 days and it is as great as everyone is raving about. Typically, I try to steer clear of book trends or fads just because I’m a scoundrel that way and hate giving into the norm but I did. I gave into this. And it was well worth it. A great female character, riveting writing, and a few murder sprees thrown in, what more could a girl (or guy) want?

Fennel Salad

from the recipe book that curses more than I do: What The Fuck Should I Make for Dinner?

If the photo doesn’t spur you to make this delicious salad, than I will. I’ll stand behind you in the kitchen and poke you in the kidneys with a fork until you do.

It’s easy. Here’s how.

You will need:

1 fennel bulb, thinly sliced

3 ribs celery, thinly sliced

¼ cup pumpkin seeds

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 tbsp honey

1 tbsp Dijon mustard

1 tbsp lemon juice

Salt & pepper (not the musical group)

¾ cup grated parmesan cheese

Combine fennel and celery in large bowl. Toast and salt the pumpkin seeds. Add those too. In a small bowl, whisk the oil, mustard, honey and lemon juice and season with the salt and pepper. Toss all that shit together. I grilled some chicken and then sliced that up and added it to the salad, so do this too if you’re a protein fiend or just like the aroma of poultry. Then top with grated parmesan.

BOOM. Done. Eat.

Now, this salad is addicting. The dressing is amazing and it’s got a great crunch because since I didn’t follow the directions, I hacked the fennel into huge chunks. But that’s how I roll.

Metazen

I keep having a love affair with Metazen. I really do. It’s my favorite online lit mag. The ballsy quirkiness of it keeps me coming back again and again. It’s not pretentious or too serious, it’s just good. And that’s what matters.

A recent piece on Metazen gave me the warm fuzzies: “I’m Your Boyfriend Dot Com” by Shaun Gannon. It’s different. Read it.

Refractory Period is a term commonly used to refer to the cooling off time (mostly for guys, ahem) after knocking boots. First introduced to this in my Sexuality 101 class in college, I now use it in another uncommon sense.

I’ve coined refractory reading for myself whenever I finish a book. The moment I’m done, I set the book on my nightstand, stare into space and light a cigarette.

No, not really. But I like to pretend. I pretend so hard.

"You're welcome, Book."

 I want to focus on the end – the finished product of reading a book. How you digest a book. Mental processes at work.

For me, I have to have a refractory period after any book I read. It takes me between 1-2 weeks to pick up another, which definitely cuts into precious reading time…I can’t cram as many books down my gullet with that little break but it must be done. I need time to absorb, to have a break from a big book.

 In between the refractory period I usually read lit mags and my token Playboy to cool off a little bit. I plot my next book carefully, standing in front of my bookshelves agonizing over what-shall-I-read?.

Then, I think about what I’ve read. Analyze it. I’m not a scholar but I generally like to understand what I’ve just consumed. Wikipedia-it if I don’t get the theme. Discuss it with others who have read it.

 I’m not sure why I do this. It’s almost as if I feel the need to have a moment (or a week) of appreciative, contemplative silence for the book I’ve just read.

Does anyone else do this? Or are you those dastardly jumpers? The lucky folk who can jump right into another book the moment after you finish the last one? (Yes, I said folk.)

I think there's a book down there. Somewhere...

 No matter what way I put it, one thing cannot be denied. I end all my books just like my ex-boyfriends.

With paper cuts and tears.

Since 2012 is approaching very soon I figured I’d post my final tally — ahem, breakdown – for 2011. Prepare the drum roll…

17 books. Maybe 16.5 if you want to get all technical about it, ya frickin heathens.

"READ US ALL OR PREPARE FOR DESTRUCTION."

Not bad. I am pleased with this figure. I’d render the verdict that my favorite from this list has been Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by HST. Nothing can quite compare to the goldmine of quotes in this gem of a novel (as I dissected in a prior post).  That’s followed by The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (I sense a pattern developing here, don’t you?), then Cunt (changed my life), rounding out my top three.

The three main things I have gleaned from this list are that: I have an affinity for Stephen King, an obsession with Rob Lowe and I say the word cunt a lot.

And so we go—

The List – In Order of Having Been Read:

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson
2. Doomed Queens by Kris Waldherr
3. The Lady in the Tower – The Fall of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir
4. Damn Sure Right by Meg Pokrass
5. Sweet Valley Confidential by Francine Pascal et al
6. Light in August by William Faulker – I quit this book on page 50 so it doesn’t really count. As painful as it was to quit I couldn’t do it.
7. The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls
8. What May Have Been by Gary Percesepe and Susan Tepper
9. Stories I Only Tell My Friends by ROB LOWE
10. The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test by Tom Wolfe
11. Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
12. The Dome by Stephen King
13. Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg
14. Full Dark No Stars by Stephen King
15. Cunt by Inga Muscio
16. Ayiti by Roxane Gay
17. American Gods by Neil Gaiman

This is how I pretty much read all my books. Minus the pre-teen adolescent boy and stoic glare.

How did everyone else do? What was your number? Your list, your faves? Your rejections?

Am I the only nerd who keeps a book journal and names it Jeeves?

Only time will tell.

And not those pesky ones either, like how you’re going to join a gym this year and swear off carbs or how you’ll only reverse-speak to your co-workers while you do some sort of fantastic eyeball-popping dance like that dwarf in that one Twin Peaks episode we all worship.

Oh wait, that's just me

What I want to talk about are the goals you will make in 2012 for your passions. Your true loves. And if you’re reading this blog, they probably have something to do with reading and writing, like my own.

Read More Books by Women Authors

I am making it a goal to only read works by female authors during the first three months of 2012. After reviewing my book tally for 2011 (more on this later) I realized the majority of those authors have dicks. That’s all fine and dandy but I need to expand my horizons; get into books of a female mindset and support female authors.

I am crediting this idea to Inga Muscio, author of Cunt, who says, “It’s not a bad idea…to focus solely on the artistic expressions of women for at least one year. That way you notice not only the…prevalence of male artistic expression much more, but the mother lode of inspiration and brilliance our grandmothers, mothers and sisters have produced.”

While I’m not willing to give up Stephen King for a year, I am ready and able to immerse myself solely for three months. And after that three months, incorporate more female authors into my reading diet.

Bring on Dorothy Parker and Mary Roach and Kathy Fish.

Finish my Zombie Novella

Not much to say on this. Just, in the words of Larry the Cable guy, “Git-er-done.”

Pray for me.

Not you, Willem DaFoe

Join a Writer’s Conference

I recently read an awesome article on a blog I follow called 5 Reasons to Sign Up For a Writer’s Conference (check it out, it’s a great resource).

And I’m gonna do it.

Maybe.

I found one that’s in Arizona at ASU in February and while I want to do it, it is a bit nerve-wracking. Thoughts like, “Am I ready for this?”, “Can I pass as a writer?”, “They’re all gonna laugh at me,” do run through my brain from time to time, but like Rob Lowe* starring in the Drew Peterson: Untouchable story, I think I can get over it.

But just barely.

I-I really have no words for this

I think it would be a good thing. Writing is so solitary, it would be nice to emerge, blinking into the light and interact with some writers. Share writing, make connections, and learn from these experiences.

Now to get the time off work and the cold hard cash.

Apparently, Emilio Estevez really takes writing conferences seriously

See that? Three goals, easy as your mom. And while I am lazy and could probably shell out some more ideas, I’m keeping with three goals because I feel they are doable.

Any more would probably wreck my sanity (not that that’s saying much) and impede on my daily slackerness.

So tell me your tales. Tell me your goals. What do you hope to accomplish in 2012, personally and/or professionally?

*And yes. I try to make a Rob Lowe reference at least once a month.

I have successfully finished editing all 208 pages of my story.

For real real?

And holy hell, do I have a shit ton of work to do.

Yet, instead of being discouraged by the long road ahead of me, I am actually rearin’ and ready to go. Keyboard, hear my bear roar: I AM EXCITED TO TYPE AGAIN. In fact, I am practically salivating.

While editing is a necessary process, it was a little painful to not jump right back into a part of the story that needed fixing and start typing away. Instead, just like watching Fast Five (you know I’m talking about you Vin Diesel), I forced myself to plow through it until the very end and finish.

The process I used is simple – I kept a notepad on my right side and the manuscript to my left. As I went through and edited, I’d note the edits with numbers on the manuscript and then on the notepad, the number and explanation.

Often times the explanations looked something like this:

So here I go again, back to the revisionary drawing board. Strumming the keyboard with words. And while I have come to the realization that I am the slowest writer in the world, I am also okay with that. Because I want it to be good.  And I want it to be done.

Although, my slow writing is starting to attract MMA bear fighters.

Their adorable claws and furry pelts are my muses

Berit Ellingsen is a Korean-Norwegian writer and science journalist whose work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies, most recently or forthcoming in Thunderclap, Pure Slush, SmokeLong, Metazen and decomP. Berit’s debut novel, The Empty City, is a story about silence. This is her second story with predatorial fish.

~~~

What Girls Really Think

 by Berit Ellingsen

They sat inside the smell of dead seagull, bleach and formaldehyde, beneath the mute stares of a stuffed red fox and a mounted brown and white marten that bared their small teeth ineffectually at the void.

The middle-aged museum taxidermist scrunched up his face, leaned forward and asked in a reverent tone:
            “Do you get a lot of attention from boys?”

The thin, twelve year old girl in front of him tried to duck away from his sour breath. She didn’t know the answer to his question, because it didn’t connect with reality. What did “a lot” mean? What did he mean by “attention”? Compliments? Invitations to dates? Tugs on her hair? She received nothing of the former but plenty of the latter. Her long hair seemed irresistible for pulling, sometimes so hard the roots creaked when the braid was tugged like a church bell by eager little hands.

There was something more to the man’s question than just his words and curiosity, something unformed and threatening, like the shadow of a leviathan passing below the surface. But she wasn’t interested, because the man wasn’t interesting, so she refused to search for it, or be scared of it, whatever it was.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe sometimes.”

The taxidermist leaned back in his chair. He knew he had gone as far as he could risk.

The girl’s mind was cold and clear and still. She sighed and thought of the piranha in the display tank in the museum basement, how much she looked forward to watching them get fed and see the raw meat spread out in cloudy little chunks, blushing the water, instead of trying to reply to unintelligible, unanswerable questions.

As of this Tuesday I have successfully edited 100/208 pages. Now, please note this is not a thorough, kill-your-darlings type of editing; it’s more of a fill-in-the-gaps, continuity, make-sure-the-gun-used-on-page-five-matches-the-one-used-on-page-55 type of thang. 

So far, it’s not as bad as I thought. I will be honest and admit I procrastinated. I was scared. But now that I’m into it, I find I’m okay with it. Some parts are bad, but the parts that are good, I’m finding are pretty damn decent. At least in my opinion. I never know how to judge my own writing but I try to be honest on what works and what doesn’t. I go with my gut on what to cut or not.

I swear I'm better than this

Another thing I’ve encountered is the need to add more information. With this re-reading/revision I find parts in the book that are lacking in back story and setting detail.  I hope to finish up this first round by the end of the week and then get back to frantically typing. Wish me luck. And wine. Much wine.

No, no, not THIS type of typing

So think about it.

And tomorrow when you’re fist deep in a turkey’s anal cavity, prodding for that delicious bag of innards, you’ll remember that it’s all worth it.

Heyyy, little guy. I do hope you're prepared to give as good as you get.

My Thanks Abounds For—

A damn good man

My hands

San Francisco/SE Hinton/Solitude

The ability to laugh at myself

My right to choose

My pussycats

A cousin who slays me everyday

A sister that makes me stronger and better

My health

Friends/Family/Foes

An addiction to the odd, surreal and creepy

Trusting my gut

Lonesome my ass.

I was thrilled.

I love traveling with my husband, yet never in my life have I had the chance to explore a city on my own time. Now don’t get me wrong, I am a woman. I am a fierce, independent creature who isn’t afraid to read at the dinner table and speak up for myself and leave the toilet seat up; but I’ve never had the opportunity to be alone in a “traveling” situation in a foreign city (if that makes sense).

Sure, I stay at home plenty of times watching horror movies in my underwear, but nothing like this.

It was a giddy, curl-your-toes feeling, and despite a teeny tiny bit of apprehension I embraced it with the same kind of enthusiasm as Gary Busey threatening to “pull your endocrine system out of your body”. I was wide-eyed and crazy-haired.

Time was all mine.

I didn’t have that intense “I-have-to-hurry” feeling one has when you’re engrossed in one of your odd hobbies your companion/significant other /stalker couldn’t care less about (ahem, ghost hunting, anyone?). I made the French Quarter my pet. I sat on a curb for an hour, drinking Chicory Coffee and watching the best band to sing some New Orleans Jazz. I spent hours in bookstores and voodoo shops.

I travel solo so photos like this exist.

 And I learned a few things about myself.

1.  I could make friends with strangers.

How I like to greet people.

While in New Orleans, I conversed with two sweet World War II veterans; met a girl on the street (no, not that kind of girl) – a perfect stranger who was alone as well – and ended up having coffee and beignets together at Café Du Monde; met a woman from New York City on my ghost tour and ended up getting a hug and phone number at the end of night; befriended and took a photo with a delicious hippie who sang in a freewheeling street jazz band.

I have my doubts about which one is the grungy hippie.

And hell, if that isn’t a mouthful I don’t know what is.

 2. Who needs ménage a trios when you got ménage a solo?

 I ate pretty much every meal alone. And I damn well enjoyed it. Now please make note that I’ve never been afraid to do this, and not counting the dorm cafeteria and lunchrooms in junior high and lunches ate in my car during my summer job (don’t ask), I’ve never dined at a real restaurant before.

I ate po’boys and fried oysters and jambalaya and muffuletta. ALL. BY. MYSELF.

Even James Vanderbeek cries when I dine alone.

And the daiquiris. Sweet baby, J, the daiquiris.

Let me tell you – anyone who has never been to New Orleans before – they have an open container policy.

Yes. Yes, you heard me right. Let it sink in, people.

During my treks down to the French Quarter and Bourbon Street I would randomly pop into a Daiquiri and Dreams shop (My own name, ahem, potential investors [I like to imagine Tom Cruise working one of these stands]) and order one large Ragin’ Cajun to go, please. Then I’d saunter off down Bourbon Street on my merry way.

So, I guess the point of this, is that daiquiris all aside, eating alone has made me an empowered baller.

 3. Well, just call me mother-fucken-Magellan.  

The decision was not an easy one.

I realized I could actually follow a map. Now, folding it up is another thing altogether…

 I successfully navigated myself around New Orleans and was proud to notice that I knew exactly where to go without asking anyone. By the end of the trip, I could have been a tour guide.

 4. I could do this again. And I will.

The sheer empowering joy I got while pounding the pavement in New Orleans was enough to tell me to take a SOLOGIRLSVACATION every so often.

It’s really amazing what you can do on your own – even though I knew I could, and I had no fear – actually experiencing it was really a huh moment.

I urge you all to visit New Orleans in all of its delicious sleaze and glory. And man or (especially) woman, I urge you to get out on your own for a day…or even three. It’s empowering. It’s fun.

 It’s good for the soul. And the ego.

 And now watch, Hipsters and Creoles Dance in Perfect Harmony.