MissMeliss: Escribition

I’ve barely slept since Tuesday, until last night, but today even though I did get a full night’s rest, I couldn’t shake the sleepies. I went back to bed around 10:30 AM when Fuzzy went to work, and didn’t wake til after two. Slept again from 2:30 - 4. Ate something, had tea, talked to my mother - my throat felt tight, but not really achey.

At 7:45, knowing Fuzzy would be late, and that he’d be stopping at Jamba Juice on his way home, I went to sleep again, and dreamed that I was on a cruise, like one of those royal caribbean type things you always see advertised. I like the ocean a lot, but I’ve never been on an actual cruise. (I do want to take an Alaskan cruise someday though), so I don’t know what induced the dream. Maybe my “under the sea” light theme? Maybe the sea turtle background image?

Or maybe I’ve seen the movie Out to Sea one too many times.

In any case, since then I’ve had a peanut butter MOOD smoothie, a hot bath, and 2.5 bottles of water. I woke from that nap with a raging fever, sore throat, and swollen glands. And yes, Fuzzy, you probably WILL have to take Zorro to the vet without me in the morning.

And I owe it all to the support of my friends and family.

I’m talking about The Algonkian Novel Camp in San Francisco. I heard from them just a few minutes ago. Here’s the email.

Dear Melissa,

Hello and thank you for your application. The Algonkian Park workshops will show you the craft and knowledge needed to produce a manuscript able to compete in today’s tough marketplace.

Have read your application with interest. It is clear you are a serious writer and one capable of writing a manuscript that editors and agents will want to see. Additionally, your prose sample is indicative of a competitive commercial fiction style. In the workshops we will study and apply craft enhancement techniques that will improve your narrative and make your ms even more competitive. Our goal is to provide writers with realistic advice and work with them to create a plan for publication.

They only take 15 people.
I’m hyperventilating.

I just applied to this:

http://www.algonkianconferences.com/FishermansWharfNovelCamp/

I’m not sure where we’ll find the money IF I get accepted.

But I applied.

So, positive energy, please….?

If I could afford it (it’s not just the cost of rent, it’s the kenneling of the dogs, and the paying of airfare, etc.), I’d be spending a week in one of those Outer Banks rentals that Anne Rivers Siddons writes so vibrantly about. I’ve got this longing to spend a week sitting by the shore reading and writing and drinking iced tea, and doing very little else.

The sea is in my blood. The tides call to me, even when I’m hundreds of miles inland. In my dreams I float on beds of soft kelp, carried atop waves of deep blue, and if sharks circle, they do so protectively, not out of malice or hunger.

I remember coming home from a day at the beach only to spend even more time swimming, or just soaking in the bath. I remember sand stuck everywhere - even in the part of my tightly-braided hair.

I remember the frosted iced tea glasses with the unfrosted leaves, like a reverse etching, and how my grandfather’s tea always tasted of cinnamon and lemon, and love.

I remember. and I miss it so.

And I want to wake up to the sound of shore birds, and go to sleep with the soft sound of the ocean lapping at the sand.

This summer, I will have my beach house fantasy.
Somehow.

I went to bed to the sound of thunder and the flicker of lightning, wrapped in flannel sheets and cuddled by my dogs and husband - it was a good way to fall into sleep: warm, loved, safe, and I had happy dreams as a result.

I dreamed I’d finally sold my book, was on tour, and had earned enough to offer a private student loan to the winner of a writing contest.

I dreamed of a night dive with sharks at Guadalupe Island, Baja, where the water is warm. In a cage, out of a cage. The dream had both kinds of diving. I like sharks. I think they’re elegant, in their way. This was a fabulous dream.

I learned something as well, from the various dreams that I had. The pink hair? It’s staying til I sell the book. Then I’m going to change it, but I’ve already decided that in February we’re going to do a mixture of pink highlights and threads of warm gold. Natalie (my stylist) is already working on a plan for this.

I have to go finish Christmas prep today.
But I’m itching to write.

I’ve been thinking a lot about espresso machines lately. I used to have a DeLonghi machine, but it was a pain to use, and when I owned it I felt like I had to use it, instead of hitting cafes. I like going to cafes, you see. I like the mix of people, the funky music, the sound of the steaming milk as it makes froth and foam, the cheery clatter of cups and saucers.

However, I also like really strong coffee with pretty foam on top when I write, and without an espresso machine I can’t make one. We have a wet bar in the kitchen, and I’ve often fantasized about having a restaurant-quality machine hard-wired and hard-plumbed into that space.

It’s just a fantasy, of course, because we don’t have that kind of cash, and if we did, we’d be replacing carpets, putting in a hot tub, and rebuilding the front entry, but it’s fun to dream about such things. I try to justify it by reminding Fuzzy that he likes frothy hot chocolate, and that espresso machines of that caliber are also great for steaming scrambled eggs - nothing is fluffier, actually, then eggs done by steam injection.

Fuzzy brings me back from my fantasies with questions like, “So you wouldn’t have to go to Starbucks, then, right?”

Silly man.

(If you came here looking for my Thursday Thirteen post, it’s below. )

They all laughed at Christopher Columbus
When he said the world was round.
They all laughed when Edison recorded sound.

Sometimes, I think I was born in the wrong decade, and would have been much happier around the era when the Rat Pack was in their prime. I am constantly humming tunes from that period, the ones that we now refer to as “standards,” and three of my favorite modern-era musical performers are Harry Connick, Jr., Michael Buble’ and Diana Krall.

They all laughed at Wilbur and his brother
When they said that man could fly
They told Marconi wireless was a phony
It’s the same old cry

I appreciate a singable sort of song. Oh, I like to bop around to pop and dance music as much as anyone, but give me a big band and a melody with equal parts scat and swing, or the encouragement to belt (I do love to belt) and I’m not in my living room any more, but on stage at the Tropicana Las Vegas, wrapped in satin and torch-singer red lipstick.

They laughed at me wanting you,
Said I was reaching for the moon
But oh, you came through,
Now they’ll have to change their tune

It’s good to have a rich inner fantasy life and a musical vocabulary that lets you explore many different dreams. Espresso in Havana? Sure! Tap dance down 42nd Street? Why not. Inhabit the world of a nightclub chanteuse, if only for a couple hours? Absolutely!

Yes, it’s completely geeky. But it keeps me happy. And relatively sane.

They all said we never could be happy,
They laughed at us and how!
But ho, ho, ho!
Who’s got the last laugh now?