MAKING IT HAPPEN: Time, it doth fly. Fo’ reals.

I used to think that summertime went by faster than any of the other seasons.

Now I know for sure it does.

It feels like yesterday that I was getting ready to give birth to Little Miss Took.  Now she’s going on four months old. Where the heck does the time go?  (By the way, in case you’re wondering, Took is pretty much the easiest, sweetest baby ever.  And that’s saying something, because her older bros and sis were pretty stinking spectacular themselves.)

Anyway, August is looming around the corner.  School starts in less than a month.  I’m getting ready to ship the MS off to an editor.  I have a pretty solid cover idea.  I’m fine-tuning my log-line and blurb.  Mostly, though, I’m trying not to freak out too hard about how quickly time is going by and that pretty soon my first attempt at a book will be out there for all the world to see.

Gulp.  (Feel free to barrage me with comments about how awesome you’re sure my book is going to be, how you can’t wait to read it and buy copies for all your friends and co-workers, how this blog has utterly changed your life and you’ll never be the same, yadda, yadda, yadda, because hey, I’m just like every other writer out there and I crave affirmation like a zombie craves brains.)

A couple weeks ago I had y’all vote on whose undie drawer you’d like to dig through.  ‘Little Old Lady’ won by a landslide.  I can’t decide if that means the lot of you are sweet (to care about Little Old Lady so), or a bunch of sickos (I mean, who snoops in Little Old Lady’s underwear drawer?)  But you voted, and it’s my job to satisfy, so here we go.  You sick freaks.

‘Little Old Lady’ is actually a woman named Opal.  She’s a widow, mother, and grandmother.  She likes to think she has an impeccable judge of character.  Most of the time she does.

Her dresser is an antique.  I don’t know if it’s a good antique, but it’s old and lovely in her eyes.  She keeps a tatted doily on top – a wedding gift from some obscure relative too many years ago to mention.

She keeps her unmentionables in the top right drawer.  The smell of vanilla and lavender greets you – she keeps one of those papery satchels filled with potpourri tucked in the bottom.  Also tucked in the bottom is a yellowed stack of love letters from her late husband, Leo, along with a fading black-and-white photograph of the couple when they were young and love was something new.  A nearly used up bottle of Leo’s cologne rests nearby.  When she misses him she holds it up to her nose and breathes deeply.  She doesn’t spray it often – it’s too precious a thing to use freely.

If you dig around a little, I think you’ll find a stash of chocolate.  Nothing fancy, just a couple Hershey’s bars.  She started keeping them there when her daughter, Connie, was young.  Connie could never keep her hands out of the candy, and so Opal would keep it here, and sneak off to eat it in the bathroom in peace.  Now the habit is so old that it doesn’t ever cross her mind to do it any other way.

Under where she keeps the chocolate are two ticket stubs to game three of the ’89 World Series.  That was a day she’ll never forget.

The last thing of note in her drawer is a black velvet box that contains an unset black opal, slightly smaller than the palm of her hand.

That’s it for Opal’s drawer.  Put everything back how you found it, if you don’t mind.

Thanks for stopping by!  And if you’re interested in SHRILUGH and what’s coming, go check out my Pinterest boards, SHRILUGH and SHRILUGH AS YOU SEE IT.  The second one is put together by my BETA readers, and is a ton of fun!

Super big grins,



Twice Lucky

Last week, the fabulous Tameri Etherton tagged me in a little game us writers like to pass around called Lucky Seven.  Really, it’s just a medium we use to goad each other into sharing snippets of what we’re currently working on.  Writers (maybe it’s just me, but I’m inclined to think it’s a community disposition) are equal parts terrified and eager to share what we’ve written.  It’s easier for us if it looks like a game.

Here are the rules to Lucky Seven:

1) Go to page 77 of current manuscript

2) Go to line 7

3) Post the next 7 paragraphs, lines, or sentences – writer’s choice.

Like a man trying to teach a poodle to fly, I’m tossing those rules right out the window.

I’ve already done the Lucky Seven with SHRILUGH (you can read it here), and I’m not ready to do it with the second book in the series, DARKENING.  I have another story that’s as bare-bones as you can get, but those beginning stages of writing are precious to me – not easily given up for any eyes to see.

So, instead, I’m going to share with you a prophecy, and a song.  The first is a thread in the SHRILUGH series, and the second is something I wrote to give an old drunk in the third book something to sing on his birthday.  Will these make you want to read what I’m working on?  I don’t know.  But I sure had fun writing them.


There stands a door in ancient trees;
Not for weakened hands to reach.
Yet some have passed in earlier days,
When darkness reigned in evil ways.
Abominations; Ancientborn;
Those aged stories, all forlorn
Will be retold with different names – 
But stories, themes, remain the same.
Revenge’s sister Justice, sweet,
Stands tall in her own courtroom, keeps
A list of those who hold her dear,
And those who falsely call to her
While her dark sister whispers
Evil nothings in their ears.



Oh! As I was a’goin’ o’er the Ovedlea Mountains
I met a bonny lass, she was cryin’ like a fountain.
I handed her my ‘kerchief, I let her snot my sleeve,
And she produced a shiny blade and robbed me clean indeed!
Oy! Hey-o, hey-o, she robbed me clean indeed!
Oh! As I sat there bleedin’ on the Ovedlea Mountains
Another bonny lass came and offered me a flagon.
Parched was I, said ‘Thankya’, and drank the bitter mead,
Swallowed too soon, realized too late, the bitch had poisoned me!
Oy! Hey-o, hey-o, she poisoned me, indeed!
Oh! As I lay there dyin’ on the Ovedlea Mountains,
A maiden fair as evening came ridin’ on a stallion.
She offered me elixir, if I would just concede,
A nod of my head, a wave of her hand, she bought my soul indeed!
A nod of my head, a wave of her hand, she bought my soul indeed!
Oh! Now I spend my days wanderin’ Ovedlea Mountains,
A soul-less bastard be I, man shriveled and man shrunken.
A lesson learned not one time, not once, nor twice, but three,
A maiden fair, a bonny lass, will be the death of me!
Oy! Hey-o, hey-o, she’ll be the death of me!

This is where I’m supposed to tag seven other writers.  Since I’ve already broken all the rules, I’m gonna do it again.  I’m tagging YOU!  That’s right, yon reader.  Do you have a manuscript in the works?  I wanna see a snippet.  If you want to participate, leave a link to your blog in the comments, along with the date you’re gonna run the post.  I’ll pop by and read!  Or, if you prefer, leave your excerpt in the comments here. Hey, I broke the rules.  *shrug*  You can, too.  I won’t rat you out, promise.

Hey, if you’re interested in SHRILUGH, or the book that’s coming after it, DARKENING, go check out these Pinterest boards:


SHRILUGH, AS YOU SEE IT (this one’s put together by my beta-readers)



As I’ve said before, the weekend is really the start of my work-week.  I get most of my writing – and the chore of blogging – done Friday through Monday.  Here’s what happened.

Friday:  Pinched a nerve in my back.  RIDONKY.

Saturday:  Started editing the second book in the series I’m working on.  RIDONKY.  Thought I’d jump off the deep-end into the world.  RIDONKY.  Quickly pulled myself out of the water, remembering I don’t know how to swim.  RIDONKY.  Discovered that my local library isn’t quiet inside.  In fact, it’s RIDONKY loud.  I’m still kind-of weirded out by that.

Sunday:  Realized I have four blog posts to write for this week.  RIDONKY.  Started on the 6th DARK TOWER novel instead.  So frigging RIDONKY (in a good way).  Mr. Stephen King, if you’ve stumbled upon Blogging Barefoot (*snickers at the likelihood of that*), I have to tell you, you’re the bomb-diggity.  For reals.  RIDONKY reals.

Today:  Who knows?  It’s Sunday when I’m writing this, and I’m no fortune-teller.  Chances are, no matter how much I get done, I’ll end the day feeling like it wasn’t enough.  That’s kinda how I roll.  It’s hard for me ever feel like I’ve accomplished enough in a day, even if everything on my list gets crossed off.  Say it with me now….R I D O N K Y.

I’m having an inward chuckle about the second book in the SHRILUGH series.  I haven’t touched this MS in a little over two years.  It’s been a bit of a history lesson in the life of Writer Myndi.  Guys, I gotta tell ya, while there’s definitely a story there, the writing is so terrible, it has me laughing and crying all at once.  I’ve definitely got some hard work ahead to make it worth a darn.  The Hubster keeps telling me that I can cut myself a break – SHRILUGH and the books that follow are the first I’ve ever written.  They’re not going to be perfect, and that’s okay.  I keep telling myself that, hoping it will stick.

They’re not going to be perfect, and that’s okay.

Not sticking yet.  *whispers*  RI-DONNNNN-KY.

Last week I promised you another look in one of my character’s underwear drawer, and had you vote on whose you’d like to see.  You naughty little kittens chose ‘Bad Guy’.  I had a couple villains to choose from, but I went with the man named Lenox Fulbert.  His underwear take up residence in a long dresser along the east wall of his bedroom.  Top middle drawer.  It opens easily and is impeccably neat inside.  He’s a whitey-tighties guy, and his housekeeper keeps ’em folded in thirds and rolled tightly, like albino Swiss Rolls no one would ever want to eat.  Underneath these is an unframed photograph of a pretty dark haired woman in her early twenties.  His late wife.  In her arms is an infant who has an unreasonable amount of dark, curly hair on her head.  His beloved daughter, Calista.  A loaded pistol lays on top of the photograph.  Tucked between the side of the drawer and the pistol is an aging envelope with an aging letter inside.  It’s from his grandfather, telling him in the shaky handwriting of an old pissed-off man that he’ll never amount to anything.  That he’s a waste of the air he breathes, worth less than urine he dribbles out what he’s sure is a sorry excuse for a cock.  Lenox reads it over a glass of Macallan every year on the anniversary of the old bastards death, toasting the fact that he was wrong.  Not to mention dead.  Cancer saw to that.  He’d toast the cancer, too, if it hadn’t taken his wife.  Next to the photograph and the gun is a small stash of porn.  On top of that are two little black boxes.  In one is his wedding ring.  In the other is his wife’s.

That’s his drawer.  I hope you’re not disappointed – no minions or scribbled down plots to take over the world.  Lenox Fulbert is a pretty normal guy, save for the fact that he’s cruel and losing his mind.

Whelp, that’s it for Monday, folks.  I hope your week is RIDONKY good.

Giggles and grins,


p.s.  Check out my Pinterest boards SHRILUGH, and SHRILUGH, AS YOU SEE IT if you’re interested.  The second board is all images my beta-readers have posted, which makes it pretty special, I think.  Hey, and BETA’s, there’s no Lenox Fulbert on the board…I’m interested in what you think he looks like!