A new bedtime story: Jack Frost and the Ice Princess

My six year old and I love to write books together. I've uploaded our most recent creation, Jack Frost and the Ice Princess, to my website, under "Kids' Books."  Once there, click on the title link (not on the picture) and you will a free downloadable, printable version of the story.

Happy New Years!!

http://hollylorincz.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/jack-frost.pdf


p.s. Thanks to Neighbor Bill for doing the actual upload :). Someday I'll master the technology beast.

For the love of our children

Today, this terrible day, is the day Andre and I bring Auggie home and make it clear to him, more so than ever before, that our particular triangle of love is stable and forever. The love between the three of us is stronger than any evil or weakness that travels our roads. I make this promise today: I will never take you, Auggie and Andre, for granted.   My heart goes out to the families in Oregon and Connecticut, and around the world, that have had their loved ones ripped from their lives. Please God, peace be with us. 

Sleeping on the Job: Chronic Fatigue

PART 1

Ugh.

I'm too exhausted to focus the shaky tendrils of thought for long but I wanted to get this anti-party started. Being chronically ill sucks. Working while chronically ill sucks more. Well, okay, a little work is actually good, keeps you human, a functioning cog in the societal wheel. But for some, trying to use your brain and body congruently for longer than two hours is a Mt. Everest with no summit, only steeper climbs and less and less oxygen. 

I have Chronic Epstein Barr Virus / Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Two years ago, the change in health and physical activity nearly killed me. Seriously. Then the change in identity nearly did me in. Now the change in financial security is a looming, swinging guillotine that will break more than the skin on the next pass. I've begun rolling my fat, tired ass off the couch cushion a couple times a week in order to teach a college class and garner a check. That's right. One class. One big mo-fo check? No.  It's almost enough to pay for a bag of dog food and a box of Wheaties.

It's not all bad. I have time to write. I have time to hang with the kid. Unfortunately, I'm not so good at either lately, while I struggle to recover after each sustained exertion of energy. I can't walk up the stairs in my house, write a cohesive paragraph, play four-square standing up . . . 

Part 2 of this blog will describe a week in the life of that whiny bitch Holly. Seriously, not many people understand chronic fatigue -- or even believe in it -- so I thought it might be beneficial to dedicate my blogs to forcing you to wear my shoes around for awhile. I don't generally wear them around anyway, at least not in the afternoon, when I can't get off a chair. 

Stay tuned. 

Stolen

I'm writing a new book, loosely titled Stolen.   I've just started. Literally. I'm one page in.  I have worked out a plot, conflicts, stakes, etc., but now I'm trying to decide if this story is more interesting in first person or third person.

So, internet world, what do you think? Help me create the break out novel, give me your thoughts. Here is the same page, written both ways:

OPTION ONE

I hate you. Oh God. I hate you. So much.

I stood at the kitchen sink. My brain stuttered under the tender mahogany gaze. Eyes the size of eggs, sunk deep in a massive head, peered at me from behind the glass. I pulled my hands free from the lukewarm dishwater and struck the window, gray suds unintentionally artistic.

 “Get outta’ here!” I pounded rhythmically, desperate. “Fuck. Ing. Thief!”

The ichor of my rage stopped the twins’ excited chatter from the highchairs behind me but had no effect on the elk. She simply chewed and stared. Chewed, stared and occasionally parted domino-sized teeth to delicately pluck rosemary, thyme and cilantro from my window box.  The rest of the herd moved heavily through the mist in the yard, heads buried in the carrot beds and blueberry bushes.

“Momma, why you no like deer?” Oliver held his oatmeal covered hands palm up, an adult gesture of questioning. Jack, seizing his chance, bashed Ollie in the nose with a red plastic spoon, screeching, “We hate deer, too!”

I shook my bruised knuckles at the beast beyond the window. “See what you’ve done!”

I limped to the boys, soothing and re-directing, seething behind my Momma façade. “All right, all right, let’s get the show on the road, boys, you’re gonna’ be late.” Momma needs to hunker down on the couch, spend some quality time feeling righteous over those housewives in New Jersey.

Jack of the red spoon waved and wailed. “We hate pre-school.” Ollie nodded frantically, beating his blue spoon on the highchair until he realized the opportunity for revenge was upon him. I caught his wrist just as the cereal was to be loosed onto his brother’s face.

 “Put that in your mouth, Ollie. No were else.”

 “Speaking of mouths, you should watch yours, Gwen.” Justin emerged from the shadows, white in the gloom. He took the cup of coffee out of my hand, my coffee, and walked away. Drinking my coffee. Thief.

OPTION 2

I hate you. Oh God. I hate you. So much.

She stood at the kitchen sink. Her brain stuttered under the tender mahogany gaze. Eyes the size of eggs, sunk deep in a massive head, peered at her from behind the glass.  Gwen pulled her hands free from the lukewarm dishwater and struck the window, gray suds unintentionally artistic.

 “Get outta’ here!” She pounded rhythmically, desperate. “Fuck. Ing. Thief.”

The ichor of her rage stopped the twins’ excited chatter from the highchairs behind her but had no effect on the elk. She simply chewed and stared. Chewed, stared and occasionally parted domino-sized teeth to delicately pluck rosemary, thyme and cilantro from the window box.  The rest of the herd moved heavily through the mist in the yard, heads buried in the carrot beds and blueberry bushes.

“Momma, why you no like deer?” Oliver held his oatmeal covered hands palm up, an adult gesture of questioning. Jack, seizing his chance, bashed Ollie in the nose with a red plastic spoon, screeching, “We hate deer, too!”

Gwen shook her bruised knuckles at the beast beyond the window. “See what you’ve done!”

She limped to the boys, soothing and re-directing, seething behind her Momma façade. “All right, all right, let’s get the show on the road, boys, you’re gonna’ be late.” Momma needs to hunker down on the couch, spend some quality time feeling righteous over those housewives in New Jersey.

Jack of the red spoon waved and wailed. “We hate pre-school.” Ollie nodded frantically, beating his blue spoon on the highchair until he realized the opportunity for revenge was upon him. Gwen caught his wrist just as the cereal was to be loosed onto his brother’s face.

 “Put that in your mouth, Ollie. No where else.”

 “Speaking of mouths, you should watch yours, Gwen.” Justin emerged from the shadows, white in the gloom. He took the cup of coffee out of her hand, her coffee, and walked away. Drinking her coffee. Thief.

You're gonna' have to chew your way out

In 2008, my husband carved a "Kerry" pumpkin and put it in front of our house. Overnight, it was replaced with a "Bush" pumpkin. That, my friends, was funny and clever. My facebook account has been hacked, sending out false posts supposedly from me, saying I'm voting for Romney. Also, funny and clever. (Though also more irritating, since now I don't know how far the hacking goes) 

What these pranks remind me, luckily, is that I cannot become obsessed with the political game, buying into the rhetoric and propaganda from either side. If I let myself, I will become agitated, then anxious, then narrow-mindedly focused, swallowed by the beast. And while in the belly of the beast, I lose sight of the big picture: the world outside of Washington politics. While we are all affected by policy and law on some level, my daily interactions with the humans around me, the choices I make to live ethically and compassionately are my own. Believe me, I support voting and democracy . . . but I really support it. I support debating the angles of every issue, not supporting the dogmatic, status-quo views of anyone, and I hate any argument that simply employs attacks on people instead of ideas.

There was a study done in 2008 (I'll post when I find the link) regarding the physical response of people when they witnessed their preferred political candidate being bashed. People's brains lit up in the fight-or-flight sections, the same parts of the brain that react when people witness violent acts, or their beloved sport team getting hammered. The physical reaction in the brain was involuntary and uncontrollable. There was a visceral response in the person's gut when they saw the person they had chosen to be leader being photoshopped with monkey ears or when a radio commentator slurred him or her.The reactions were not intellectual or emotionally-unbiased; that person could not step outside the belly of the beast. If you want to side-step your gut instinct, you're gonna' have to chew your way out.

To claim that we are voting from SOLELY an intellectual stand point is just not true. We are voting based on loyalty and tradition, and our gut instincts. Then we look for information that will support our gut instinct. That is how we humans roll. The debates, the essays, the political dialogue on CNN . . . is it changing your mind? Have you heard some fresh, new spin on international relations and sat up, thinking, "Damn, I've been wrong. That guy is so right." If not, you can assume your neighbor is also not swayed by the scripted talking points. So why be mad at that neighbor for reacting the same way you are?

I'm not saying we're a nation of non-thinkers. Most of us are voting from a standpoint that we are trying to do what is best for our community and America, not just on a blind whim. But sometimes we need to be reminded to put our heads up, look around at the bigger picture, and assess our place in it. And I'm also sayin' sometimes we need to be reminded that life is funny. Even if it's gallows-funny.

Let's get goin' on that novel!

This Saturday, November 3, is the Novel Writing Workshop at the Hoffman Center in Manzanita, OR, 10-3 pm!

*********    PLEASE PRE-REGISTER AT hollylorincz@gmail.com     *****************

If you are considering writing a novel --or you're fifteen chapters in -- this is the work session for you! Holly Lorincz has taught writing for 15 years and, more importantly, is writing her second novel. On November 3rd, she'll share everything she did wrong with the first one, her writing research, and the resulting types of rewrites she had to create before she finally attracted an agent and got Penguin to consider her novel for publication. She is also going to walk the writers through at least one outlining/brainstorming method, so bring plenty of paper and pencils. 

Participants must pay $65 at the door (check or cash), as well as provide their own lunch. It also suggested the participants dress warm! 

FUN FACT: This workshop coincides with NaNoWrMo!  National Novel Writing Month is a free national event, in which writers try to write a novel in one month, between the days of November 1 and November 30. (http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/about/hownanoworks). 

You don't have to enter NaNo to take Holly's workshop, but what a fun way to start out the month of November! 

Playing It Cool

I’m trying reeeeeaaaaaallly hard to play it cool. I walk about town, tucking my hair behind my ear, a fingertip feathering away the stray bead of sweat on my forehead, a bemused twitch on my lips . . . but my mind is agog. Agog, I say.

If you know me, you may be thinking I’m freaking out as I wait for a response from a publisher. Or perhaps you think this is about anxiety over my new role as a college instructor. Or maybe it's because I’m broke-ah-broke-ah-broke-er than a hobo until some paychecks start rollin’ in. But you’d be thinking wrong. Unless, you REALLY know me, and you know the truth:

The fall tv lineup is here! No more re-runs! Time once again to fill up my dvr with Revenge and Harry’s Law and Grey’s Anatomy and Supernatural and Falling Skies. That’s right, I love crap tv. LOVE. IT. If West Wing and Lost and X-Files and Wonder Woman were back in the mix, life would be perfect. Who needs money when you’ve got one-liners and predictable story arcs encapsulated in one-hour increments of sad sack crack? 

I’m sure you’re sitting there, judging me right now. That’s fine. I totally understand. I judge me, too. But I will stick up for myself in one sense: I can only write if there is something going on around me. I can’t bear silence. Music doesn’t do it for me, not when I’m trying to write. There is no better white noise than canned chatter (except Mad Man, I could never tune it out, I’d be unable to look away even though I ended each show in a black depression over my messed-up crush on that pig Draper).  Believe me, I’d rather be writing in a bar, surrounded by real life hook-ups and slurred singing, the ching of video poker and the howls of laughter from the drunks in the corner . . . but that is a hard role to play when you also want to keep your child. The State tends to frown on mommy’s who spend everyday at Joe’s Tavern. Or so I hear.

September 11

There are few moments seared into my mind’s eye like that of the morning of 9/11.  Those in the running: the Challenger exploding as I sat in my sophomore personal finance class; sitting in another class of youthful faces as the Berlin Wall came down in 1989; eating the perfect avocado in the middle of an isolated Mexican field, discovering peace in myself; the morning my father-in-law took his last breath and the following minutes in which my husband and his family had to re-define what it meant to live. But 9/11. My God, 9/11.

First off, let me say, I recognize how lucky I am to live on the West Coast for the past 40 years and to thus far be physically un-touched by war. I cannot begin to compare stories with the people of Afghanistan, Syria, the Ivory Coast, or, now, New York and Virginia and Pennsylvania. This powerful memory is from the point of view of a by-stander.

But I am an American, and a human. On the morning of 9/11, I stumbled out of bed, hair askew, one eye open, and turned on the news as I got into the shower. Prying myself out of the comforting stream of hot water, I toweled off, caught by an odd, cracking note in the newscaster’s voice. Turning the corner, the tv screen looked like a movie set. One of the twin towers was crumbling, smoke boiling like steam from a volcano, breaking up the Manhattan skyline. The local reporter half-screamed, “It was a plane! A plane hit the building!”

And, then, as I watched live television, a second airliner shot onto the screen and plowed into the second tower. “We’re at war,” I mumbled. “We’re at war!” I screamed, waking up my boyfriend. “We’re at war,” I chanted, a crazy woman as I scrambled for clothes, drove to the high school, and tried to get the classroom tv’s to work. We spent the day anxiously scanning the snowy channels and surfing the internet. I still have pages of documents we printed off from early reports coming into CNN and the BBC. I believed this was the first step in World War III, that someone was waging a full scale war on us, or that we were going to retaliate on a full-scale level.

Today’s reports from CNN and the BBC regarding the perpetrators are more detailed, hopefully accurate, but just as disturbing. Authorities seem confident in their assessments of guilt, but I always wonder why. Why did we, as a human race, get here. Not how. Why.

Today’s reports from CNN also discuss the personal consequences, the physical and psychological impact on our people, especially the grieving families. Why. And the first responders. Why. And the wounded or dead soldiers. Why.