I want to tell you about some friends of mine.

They’re all writerly types. That’s the first thing that brought us all together, you see. We share a passion for the printed page; for constructing fantastic worlds with mere sentences, and drawing pictures not with paints and brushes but with words.

This particular writerly friends adventure all started with Vlad V.

Vlad writes all sorts of tales—horror novels and novellas, science fiction, and children’s fantasy books. Vlad had this (not entirely unheard of) idea to start a writers group, in which he and his writing buddies would run stories by each other, providing critique and feedback to improve their fiction. In his author travels, he started collecting his group: Ursula Wong, a women’s fiction writer with a technical mind yet an ability to sketch a scene with beautiful prose, and she also had an eagerness to learn more about the craft; David Daniel, an established fiction author with MacMillan/St. Martin’s Press, who knew the writing world was transforming and wanted to keep up with the changes (plus, he so enjoyed a rousing discussion on things like writing on notepads versus using a word processor); Rob Smales, a horror writer and novice editor who could rattle off ideas faster than the rest of us could write them down; and me, a horror writer/humor blogger/copy editor who, much like Vlad, appreciates the little things in life, like five-cheese-and-bacon macaroni and cheese. (Listen, I know it's important to have friends that like to talk about the same things you do, but it also helps if they like to eat the same things, too.)

Here’s one of the nice things about Vlad: he dreams big. He took a look at all of us: a technically minded engineer-turned-writer; an established author looking to revamp his approach to publishing and marketing; an editor-in-training with ideas; a horror writer/humor blogger who earned her living as a copy editor. Vlad himself was learning more about content editing, website design and promotion, and, like all of us, constantly striving to improve his craft of writing. He looked at our group and thought: Wow. We are all remarkably talented and strikingly attractive. Then: we can be more.

Vlad’s train of thought went something like this: if we pool all of our talents, share ideas, promote each other, and work hard to create the best, most polished stories we can, success will follow. He asked us all to roll up our sleeves, work together, and apply our individual skills for the good of the group. We could write stories and polish and edit and rewrite and collaborate and revise and edit more and . . . well, produce some darn fine tales. Soon, we were creating marketing plans and designing logos and contributing blog content and above all, most importantly, writing stories. Because at our core, amid all of this, is the passion to write.

We’ve published two group anthologies so far (Insanity Tales and Insanity Tales II: The Sense of Fear) and just launched our website (www.thestoryside.com). You’ll notice that going forward, I’ll have links to The Storyside blog posts at the end of my blog each week. We have plans and ideas and dreams and goals for the upcoming year, and the year after that. And the best part is, we get to get together every six weeks or so to talk about our all of these things . . . and inevitably, about the joy of writing.

And yes, we look strikingly attractive doing it. Check us out, won’t you?   
———————--
This week's golden nuggets from The Storyside (click on the descriptions below to be taken magically to the website blog entry!):
Fabulous Free Fiction: "The Visit" by Rob Smales
"How I Was Inspired by a Homicidal Cannibal" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
Writing Advice: "Adverbs Aren't Your Friends" by Vlad V.

There are two types of people in this world. One is the sensible, rational type. They set realistic, achievable goals: grow up, get a job you like and are good at, meet someone awesome, get married and have two awesome children. My sister is one of these people. So is my sister-in-law.

The other type knows maybe what they want, which may or may not be sensible and/or achievable, and comes up with wild, perhaps unrealistic, ways to achieve those dreams. That’s probably me.

When I was a kid, I read a lot, played with the farm cats a lot, and I had the obnoxious tendency to correct other people’s grammar. But I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up: a writer.

That’s not entirely accurate. I wanted to be a writer and Wonder Woman. But when I found out that the job of Wonder Woman was already taken by Lynda Carter, I settled for just writer. So how did I decide to go about attaining that goal? Let’s take a look:

Idea #1:  Move to an isolated island where I can write all day.

Hahahaha! The naiveté dripping off of that sentence still cracks me up. After college, I moved to Block Island in an effort to be one of those reclusive writers that sits on the beach all day and writes about the waves and crap. Did it work? Ha! Here’s the thing: it is expensive to live on a resort island year-round. Bills need to be paid. I indulged my dreams of writing by churning out a weekly column for the local paper, but I worked full time for the town, took on bookkeeping jobs to keep the lights on, and was surprised when the publisher of the newspaper asked me if I’d moonlight as a proofreader. Hmm. That obnoxious “let me correct your grammar” thing had gotten me a side job. But none of these things really gave me time to write. It was time to move back to the mainland.

Idea #2: Open a bookstore so I can read and write all day.

Sounds perfect, right? In an era where independent and chain bookstores were failing every day, why not open a bookstore? I loved it. And I hated it. I was writing sporadically, reading even less, and I was doing things like reconciling accounts payable and receivable, doing taxes, and talking to customers all day. And, of course, correcting their grammar in my head. The business, and my writing, suffered.

Idea #3: Get a day job I like and am good at to support my writing habit.

Those sensible people of the world with realistic goals might be on to something. I’d worked in human resources in the past, but although I was good at it, I didn’t enjoy it. So what to do? What was I qualified to do that I could stand doing? And then one little line jumped out at me on my résumé--Proofreader, The Block Island Times.

Could I parlay that into a job I liked? Was it possible that someone would actually pay me to correct their grammar? The answer, I am happy to report, is yes.

To all of you aspiring authors out there, I recommend this: Sure, you can try the crazy stuff, like moving to an island or opening a bookstore. But if you want to write, find a day job you love. Mostly because it makes it a lot easier at night when you sit down at your computer if the power is still on, plus, you won’t be ready to jump off a bridge due to said day job. Maybe that job is in customer service, because you like people. Maybe it’s as a medical billing specialist, because you don’t like people. Or, if you’re like me, maybe you can take one of your most obnoxious personality quirks and turn it into a paycheck. Because I can tell you this: I am a writer and I am a copy editor.  No matter if I’m working as one or the other, I love what I’m doing. And sometimes, I even wear my Wonder Woman tiara while doing it.

I hate dealing with writer's block. After you read this, you will too. Here was what I wrote this week when I had a clean white page in front of me:

Blank page. Blaaaaaaannnnnnkkkk page.

C'mon, now, you've had a million ideas for stories. Surely you can think of one now. What about that one with the guy . . . who orders a coffee . . . and they spell his name wrong on the side of the cup, so he . . . gets mad? Dumps his coffee on the barista? Drinks it anyway?

I need a writing prompt. Perhaps Google can help.

Ah, here's one: The last thing you remember hearing before your friend thrust you out of the plane was: “Don’t forget your parachute!” What happens next?  I can work with that. Here we go:

The last thing I remember hearing before Gigi pushed me out of the plane was "Don't forget your parachute!"
"AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIGGHHHHH!"
Thud.

I don't know. It's not quite working for me. Should that thud be a splat? And where did the name Gigi come from? I used to know a Gigi on the island. Jeez, she has to be, what, in her thirties now? When did she get so old? But that would mean . . . I'm getting—nah. Unthinkable.

Half-blank page. Haaaalf-blaaaaaaannnnnnkkkk page.

Why am I doing this to myself? At what point in my life did I say yes, I'll be a writer, that's a fine idea? Why didn't someone stop me? My mother. This is her fault, fostering my desire to write, encouraging me to keep a journal, buying me my first typewriter, and taking me to meet writers and illustrators at the local library. What a rotten, selfish thing to do. (I'm kidding, Mom. Mom. Please stop crying.)

Here's an interesting article. It says the three most common causes of writer's block are as follows:

Timing—it's simply not the right time to write.
(Oh, waah. It's called a deadline, people. I don't care if it's the "right time" to write or not. If your blog is due Friday, you'd better darn well have that blog done Friday, and don't give me that "it's simply not the right time to write" crap.) (Side note: Wow! I'm kind of a jerky boss. Good thing I'm my only employee.)

Fear—many writers struggle with being afraid of putting their writing (and themselves) out there for everyone to see.
(At various times, I've written about my weight, my love of Double Stuf ™ Oreos, PMS, weird chin hairs, my inability to shave my legs effectively due to a desperate need for bifocals, and cat diarrhea. I'm going to say this fear thing is not my problem.)

Perfectionism—You want everything to be just right.
(Ridiculous. Just because I double-checked with the Chicago Manual of Style and cross-referenced it with Grammar Girl to make sure that above sentence should read "common causes of writer's block" and not "common causes for writer's block" does NOT make me a perfectionist.)

Well, that was no help. I have no idea what my problem is.

I suppose I could start that book about the girl from my first novel, like I've been meaning to do for months. What was her name? Penny? Piggy? 

Let me just say for the record that I love my current job, and just as importantly, my current commute. The job is fun, my coworkers are nice, and the commute is half as long as my last one. I still have about 40 minutes each way to think about deep, important things. Am I polishing up my latest novel in my head, or solving world problems as I drive? You be the judge. Here's what went through my head today as I drove:

• It's rain, people, not snow. Learn how to drive!
• The guy in front of me has a bumper sticker that looks like a hot air balloon and says "FAT" on it. What does that mean? Seems vaguely insulting. Maybe I'll honk at him.
• Ugh. If you're going to hit a squirrel, make sure you kill it. That's all I'm saying.
• My bad knee hurts this morning. Is this due to the rain, or due to the three pounds I've put on this week thanks to the arrival of Hostess Halloween Glo Balls™ in stores now? Am I fat? Really, if nobody gets your stupid fat hot air balloon bumper sticker, why have it on your car at all?
• Are there still people in the world who think OJ didn't do it? How does Marcia Clark deal with that?
• Wow, the lead singer Jimi Jamison of Survivor just died, and he was fairly young. Only 63 . . . You know who I love? Survivor winner Richard Hatch.
• Catchy tune. "I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble." Why did I give up playing the cello?
• The guy in the car next to me can't be more than 30. That's a shame, because he's got a terrible comb-over going on, which, trust me, is the least attractive hairstyle in the world. I'm tempted to roll down my window and scream "Shave it all OFF, man!" Could I get arrested for that?
• You know who hated being arrested? Richard Hatch.
• There's something unpleasant I must acknowledge about getting older. I hate to do it, but it has to be said. While it's true that Nick Rhodes has always been my favorite member of Duran Duran, out of all of them, John Taylor is really aging the best. My sister was right: he's still hot. And, let's face it, Roger Taylor looks darn good these days. Who would've predicted that?
• Oh, Dylan McDermott has a new show out this fall according to the radio? He was in Steel Magnolias, a movie I could quote endlessly. Like Young Frankenstein. I quote that movie all the time. "Werewolf?" "There wolf! There castle!" Ha ha! Seriously, people, it's RAIN, not sleet!
• Did I comb my hair this morning?
• I'm sure there's a story I can write about the snapping turtle hatchery we've got going on right now. Hmmm . . . using turtles as a murder weapon . . . an unhapp—oh, look! I didn't know there was a Whole Foods there!
• They're repaving this part of the highway. Jeez, that tar stinks . . . I wish chunky black boots would come back in style. I mean, I still wear them, but it would be nice if they were actually in style.
• What, are we not in Connecticut? Yellow means floor it, people!

As you can clearly see, I've been quite busy philosophizing and solving the issues of the world during my morning commute. Clearly, there's Aristotle, Nietzsche, and me. My planned musings for the drive home this afternoon: More squirrels, whether or not rain has been proven to lower driving IQs, Pepperidge Farms snickerdoodles, and a little debate in my mind about whether or not Richard Hatch was truly the best Survivor player ever. (Answer: yes.)


Available now! Insanity Tales, a collaboration with my writers' group, featuring me, David Daniel, Dale T. Phillips, Vlad V., and Ursula Wong! Order ten copies today!

I recently read an article about a college-age woman who went to class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in varying degrees of makeup (none, some, and lots) to test her classmates’ reactions. (Read it here: http://www.bustle.com/#/articles/26095-how-do-people-react-to-different-levels-of-makeup-i-decided-to-find-out.) She discovered that when she wore light makeup, as she was prone to do anyway, she received positive feedback.

 Desperately needing a blog idea, I thought I’d try to replicate the experiment. Would it make a difference if it was a 40-something woman who never wears makeup? If it took place at work instead of on campus? If I crammed it all in to three consecutive days instead of three days spread throughout the week? The results were shocking.

Wednesday: Here I am with no makeup. This is also a pretty clear depiction of how fuzzy my hair gets when it’s humid out. This is actually my everyday look; I often only wear makeup to weddings (or funerals, if I'm worried that I'll look more washed out than the corpse). This is not due to my confidence that I naturally look beautiful, but rather a result of my valuing sleep more than anything else. Putting on makeup would take away at least six minutes of time that would be better spent snoozing.

As this look was par for the course, I didn’t get any comments on this day. Sure, the guy at the gas station called me “ma’am,” but that’s nothing new. I finally asked one of the women I worked with to honestly critique my look.

“Um, I guess you look exhausted, but you always do. I just assumed you had eight kids or something.”

I was not pleased. “What am I, a Kennedy? I have no kids. This is my natural beauty.”

She smiled, kind of like she was gritting her teeth. “Sure, okay. Looks like you’ve got a fresh new zit on your chin. Might want to put some cover-up on that.”

Day One Conclusion: I look like a tired-looking old hag with acne.

Thursday: I had the most trouble with this look. My first attempt was to put on concealer, blush, and mascara. Apparently, this was not much different than “no makeup” because when I got to work, the receptionist asked me if my brood of children had kept me up all night. I added more blush, eyeliner, and light eye shadow. Better, though much like when I was in high school, I discovered that the more I tried to cover up my fresh new zit, the more attention the concealer drew to it. I cruised around the office space to gauge the results.

Sadly, I found that people were a lot chattier today. One co-worker who has always snubbed me asked me what my weekend plans were. Another told me I looked “different . . . but it’s nice.” Instead of giving me a boost, this made me feel a little crummy about how I normally look. Later in the day, I accidentally rubbed my eyes without thinking, leaving a trail of dried mascara crumbs along the side of my face that I didn’t know was there until I got home.

Day Two Conclusion: People seem to like the makeup, but not enough to tell me when it’s smeared across my face.

Friday: I was a little uncomfortable with the amount of makeup I was wearing, but I promised you all I’d go full glam, so I did. I got used to it quickly: wearing this much makeup was almost like wearing a mask. What a difference! I noticed immediately that the guy at the gas station couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. And when I got into work, everyone was commenting.

“Wow!”

“Unbelievable!”

And that was just the president and vice president of the company, respectively. As I passed coworkers in the hallway, they all started talking, either to me or about me. I couldn't believe it! Did wearing a lot of makeup really make that much of a difference? How shallow was our society?
When I got to my cubicle, a crowd formed. Everybody wanted to see my glamorous makeup job. I'll admit it: it felt good. All the attention made me feel like a total rock star!


Day Three Conclusion:  The reaction I got from my coworkers and random strangers pumped me so full of energy, all I wanted to do was rock and roll all night.

Conclusion: I hate to admit it, but wearing makeup really does matter. Yet I do still value sleep above all else, so I'll continue to wear the 'no makeup' look for a long time to come. However, I do think I'll be breaking out the "full makeup" look for the next wedding or funeral I attend.

There is some etiquette involved in working in a cubicle. Believe it or not, this is my first cubicle experience, having worked in the past in my own office; a shared, open office; or behind a cash register. The cubicle is a whole new experience for me. I’ve decorated it with pictures and magnets, trinkets and toiletries. Apparently, toiletries are inappropriate, and my mouthwash and makeup were banished on Day Three. But I do get to keep my all-seeing Truman up ( a photo of Capote from Gerald Clarke's biography of him, with eyes that follow you wherever you are in the office) so I’m happy. My officemates are a little creeped out (honestly, he’s always watching) but if they don’t like it, they can stay out of my cube.

I have some cubicle neighbors. To my left is a woman I’ve spotted once or twice. She’s super-quiet and moves like a snake slithering through sand. Honestly, she makes me incredibly paranoid about my own noisemaking activities (like typing, or breathing). I never hear her, which is weird, because the whole floor is like a library. I ought to hear her burp or sigh once in a while. Not like my neighbor on the other side, whom I like to call “Sneezy.” Sneezy had a cold this week, which I can empathize with, but I was so grateful, because her hacking and coughing covered up all of my boisterous activities (honestly, there’s got to be a quieter way to click a mouse button).

I’ve learned the importance of quiet food. On my first day, I bought a bag of chips from the vending machine. When I opened the bag, it sounded like a shuttle was launching from my cubicle. My neighbor, the silent wraith, quietly rose, glared at me with murderous intent, and slunk off to the bathroom until I was finished with my snack. Never again. I stopped at the grocery store after work to find some more restrained munchies.

I quickly realized that a lot of quiet food was also healthy. Score! Maybe I could lose a few pounds while being respectful of my neighbors. Bananas, grapes, marshmallows (hey, they're low calorie) . . . all silent snacks. I embarked on my new, healthier lifestyle the next day. I felt smug. Truman seemed to approve. All was well until lunchtime. Guess what? Salad is decidedly NOT quiet. The wraith drew a silent slice across her neck after my first bite. Plus, by 2 p.m., I was so hungry I was licking what I thought was a chocolate stain off of my lunch bag. (It turned out to be soy sauce. I didnt care.) I gave up my diet and contributed to the Pop Tart™ fund. It turns out Pop Tarts™ are very quiet, so everyone was happy.

Phone etiquette is pretty important, too. My new company apparently has no problem with making personal phone calls during the day, as long as you get your work done. I found this out by eavesdropping on everyone else’s (hey, it’s like a tomb in that office. I can’t impress enough upon you how deathly silent it is.) The woman three cubicles down had problems on Tuesday because the school nurse called to say her kid was sick. The Wraith is having an issue with her satellite dish company; Sneezy’s doctor won’t call in a prescription unless she goes in to see the nurse. Feeling emboldened, I called Jason from my desk phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I admitted.
“Why’re you calling during the work day? Is something wrong?”
“I just wanted to talk to someone,” I said. “Never mind. Truman’s staring at me; I gotta go.”

The office cubicle: it can be a lonely place.

I’ve finally adjusted to my commute, which is over an hour long. Remember, I used to live so close to my job on Block Island that I could walk there (though I never did, which might explain why I was fat). Since others might also be experiencing the joys of a long commute, here’s a list of fun games I’ve made up to play on your ride to and from work:

1. What’s That Noise?
This fun time-killer will have you going crazy in no time. Possible thoughts will include Do I have a flat tire? or Am I behind a gravel truck? and Is there a rabid weasel attached to the undercarriage of my car?
Not to be confused with . . .

2. What’s That Smell?
An entertaining variant of What’s That Noise?, this game will have you wondering Is my engine on fire? or Did I pack rotten eggs in my lunch this morning?

3. Hello, Fellow Commuters
You’ll soon realize that you’re seeing some of the same people every day during your drive. I’ve learned, for instance, that the blue van that speeds down Route 2 every morning with the sign reading Carrying School Children should not be. Then there’s the car with the license plate IKESMA who likes to travel at 50 m.p.h. in the left lane. I hate her, not just for her annoying traveling habits, but because she named her kid after a cartoon character on South Park.

4. Test your Bluetooth Commands
If you’re driving, you should have a Bluetooth. Take this time to learn what that gadget can do! My Bluetooth, for instance, recognizes “Find the nearest gas station” as the command for “call 9-1-1.” Fun times!

5. Stalk the Traffic Reporter Guy
In Connecticut, there seems to be just one guy in the whole state who reports on traffic for every station across the radio dial. His name is Mark. I like to follow him across the radio. He starts off on 96.5 TIC as "Mark the Shark," then hops over to 100.5 WRCH as "Mark Christopher." Sometimes I catch him on WTIC 1080 AM, and then I lose him. But I'll find him, sooner or later. I've got time.

6. Match up your CDs to your Commute
It's fun to try and figure out which of your CDs will line up perfectly with your commute. After stalking Mark for a while, I take the information he's given me (accident on 84 East, say, or Mark lives in Glastonbury) and choose the appropriate CD. Light traffic means I can get in the entire Violent Femmes' Viva Wisconsin! album; a jackknifed tractor trailer means it's time for the Beatles' 1 album. Duran Duran's Greatest CD works best when traffic is moving along but slowing up by the Glastonbury exit.

7. Play 'Dodge-the-Pothole'
Most of my time is split up between What's That Noise? and this game. You will quickly learn which lanes along which routes have the worst potholes, and drive accordingly. I'm sure to the drivers behind me it looks like I'm trying to dodge velociraptors in the kitchen, but trust me, those swerves are necessary. The biggest challenge happens around Hartford, when I have to avoid the potholes without getting stuck behind Ike's mother. I award myself points for every blown out tire I see along the side of the road (one point each, but if you spot a whole tire, including rim, like I did today, that's worth at least ten). When you reach 100 points (and you will, quickly) your reward is a greater appreciation for your vehicle and its tires.

There you have it. These fun on-the-road games will help your commute pass by in no time! 

You may have heard by now that I've returned to the corporate world. (Maybe you didn't hear, in which case, we are either not related or not Facebook friends. Surprise! I have a job.) The bookstore is still my baby, but as any parent knows, babies need to be fed. So off to work I went.
I was lucky enough to find a position as a proofreader for a respectable company. I'll admit I was pretty nervous about returning to an office environment. What if they didn't appreciate my keen fashion sense or somewhat off-color sense of humor? What if I went in the first day and they all laughed at (not with) me? What if the office coffee gave me gas?
My first challenge was the commute. Not only was it long (and keep in mind, I've been used to driving about 8 miles to the bookstore) but I had to face a lot of Connecticut and Massachusetts drivers. As you may be aware, these are two states not known for their considerate and respectful driving habits. Traffic was horrible, one guy drove all the way from Hartford to Marlborough with no lights on at night during a snow squall, and the pot holes threatened to eat my tires alive. I now have significantly less patience and more gray hairs.
I noticed those new gray hairs under the fluorescent lighting of the huge bathroom at work. What a nice change from the last office I worked in, which had one toilet and some people who didn't always lock the door when they were in there! My new place has at least eight stalls, and scented hand lotion right near the sink. I was getting spoiled. Fast.
In the kitchen (and to my former co-workers, let me report that there are three refrigerators and three microwaves just for one department!) I found what was clearly the holy grail of office perks: Pop Tarts™ . A variety of flavors, a toaster to heat them in, and a little donation jar if you want to contribute to the tart fund! Why did I bring oatmeal for breakfast? No worries, though: I threw out my salad and ate brown sugar and cinnamon toaster pastries for lunch instead.
I was assigned my own cubicle, and told I could decorate it any way I saw fit. The only drawback was that if I valued my life, I should probably stay away from New York Yankees pennants and memorabilia. Sadly, I was in Red Sox country, and I'm too new to start stirring up trouble. (Yet.) I worked around it, though, and now I have a bright, cheery cubicle decorated with pictures of Duran Duran, Freddy Kreuger, my family, and Richard Hatch. I love this place!
Nobody interrogates me when I get up to use the bathroom, I don't have to send anyone a list of what I'm working on as soon as I come in for the day, and I haven't once gotten in trouble for wishing a fellow co-worker good morning. It's been quite a refreshing change from my last position. The only downside is that my entire first week's paycheck has found its way into the Pop Tart™ fund. Plus I've already gained ten pounds. And the office coffee does, in fact, make me  a little gassy. But since it's just me and Duran Duran in my cubicle, who cares?
Next week, I'll probably explore how to do my job. But for now, so far, so good!