(Over) Analyze This

How it is: Writing ain't what it used to be. Not these days, at least. Some days I drag myself kicking and screaming to the page, using any excuse to skip looking at my latest work all together.

Some offer guidance or answers to my recent lack of enthusiasm. They say things like, "Everyone has a slump," or "Take time away." My favorite advice, which I lay on myself all the time, is "Maybe your story sucks." That said, I'll spend hours thinking about it, poring over the pages with a damn microscope looking for a fix to jazz up the pages.

Lately I've been recalling the days when I started my first novel. Seven years ago this month I completed my first manuscript, over 225k words spilled out in eight months (strange, yes. Back then, not so much). Nothing could keep me away. I literally wrote morning, noon and night, every day including weekends. I LOVED that story. The fact that I had no idea how to craft a novel never occurred to me. Not once did I stop to think about plot. I just knew the story in my heart - it was organic. Once I finished my first novel, I put it to bed and began another following the same process.

After the completion of manuscript three things slowed down. Blame the eye explosion - enduring four surgeries to repair a detached retina slows one down a bit. But it never stopped me. The day my goddess eye doctor recommended staying away from the computer, I picked up pen and pad and continued the writing process.

Today I have no physical excuses for not writing, it's all mental. The creative part of my brain feels like it has been scrubbed with a wire brush. Nothing comes. No love, no enthusiasm or ideas. I'm left to wonder. Where did the good times go?

With answers not forthcoming, or obvious, I've reviewed my personal writing journey looking for answers, anything to make sense of it all. Here are a few thoughts and/or reasons on why my muse has gone stealth:

1.) In the beginning I wrote with great abandoned, clueless to the craft. Publishing wasn't in my thoughts. My work went unseen, the first two months no one in my household knew why I spent so many hours on the computer. I loved the characters I created and to me, the story was a masterpiece. Due to a freak ice-storm that knocked out the power for days, I told my husband how I spent my hours, revealing the story to him. He was my first supporter and fan, saying that many people dream of writing a novel, but few actually do it.

2.) Fast forward to mid-manuscript number two. Husband asked if I considered publishing. That thought put into motion my quest, including research and finding out where to begin on such a path. This involved opening the doors to reveal what once was my private venture. One person's thoughts evoked a wide spectrum of roads, adding more eyes to the mix. I joined Romance Writers of America, not realizing at the time that romance not my genre. But hey, those chicas knew the publishing ropes - I credit my choice for advancing my muse as well as knowledge base.

3.) The RWA. If not for them I never would have shared my work, making it subject to strangers' eyes. Contests a-plenty, I entered. One thing I found helpful by entering RWA sponsored writing contests was that the contestant remained anonymous. No names, I became a number. That being the case, judges' comments were based solely on the writing. I had several great scores, and a few not so great. The process thickened my skin as well as improved my talent (I believe).

It helped that contestants remained anonymous. Praise for my work came honestly.

4.) Honest opinions. I forged relationships with fellow writers. One in particular I call the "perfect balance" - she always told it like she saw it - she didn't praise if not warranted, yet let me know when something rocked.

5.) Editors. I have found there are many forms of editors. Those who actually know the craft and can back up their expertise with strong credentials; ones who know the craft, etc., yet tend to over-criticize, using such buzz words as "not buying it" (God, how I hate that phrase); and finally there are those who say they can edit, period. I've had three experiences with editors. Two credentialed; two who used the term I despise; one who had nothing to back up the title. I'm a firm believer that every manuscript needs an editor's eye, but also believe editors need "perfect balance" and not become the Simon Cowell of editing.

Ultimately in these past weeks I've felt abandoned and have begun to analyze my situation. I've recently become reclusive, have strayed away from blogs, distanced myself from other writers and worst of all, stepped away from my manuscript. Although the above five topics depict my writing road, it reveals a common denominator: Other writers. The good of it was great, the bad of it horrible.

Without mingling with other writers my writing world shrank. Without other writers I no longer hear words of praise (and I heard a few along the way). Funny how one kind word strengthened my work ethic, erasing all the bad comments or contest scores completely.

Perhaps that's what I'm missing. Kind people possessing genuine praise (not my sister or husband). Is it time to rejoin the creative human race again? So many questions, so much angst, what is a girl to do?

Puzzle Me This

Sudoku. Either you love it or can't wrap your brain around it.

I'm a former "Can't wrap your brain around it" person. I'd look at its grid each day a new puzzle appeared in the local morning rag. A box with nine boxes with nine boxes in each. Objective: "Complete the grid so that every row, column and 3x3 box contains the numbers 1 though nine (no repeats)." Did I mention that some of the boxes already have numbers? They do. It's the job of the masochist puzzle-doer to fill in the empties. Daunting task? It was for me, but one that kept my curiosity piqued at an all time high. I had to master this damn thing, or die trying. Thus, I started out slowly - luckily the puzzles came in varying degrees of difficulty. I began with the lowest level. Once I mastered those, I moved on up. Once I achieved the highest level I skipped the easier ones.

But I never gave up. Never let the easy ones, which at the time were akin to deciphering the Rosetta Stone, stop my perseverance. "Never say can't - tossing in the towel not an option," my motto, I kept up the struggle.

For the past six years I've actively sought publication, in fits and starts. Beginning with writing contests, I put my work into the hands of strangers. Was it difficult? Hell yeah. Did the "constructive criticisms" hurt? Of course, once I learned how to view them. Did they stop me? No.

Only I can stop me. And like mastering Sudoku, I've kept at it, learning the process along the way, seeing my failings as learning tools, and seeking out answers from qualified sources, such as this person and this person. I connect with example setters, such as this person, this person and this person, people who have forged their own path. Most of all, I continued to write even when a part of me said, "You will never see the publishing light of day."

And I can control whether I see that "light of day," by either choosing to listen to good advice, or choosing the path of least resistance - quitting. Is it a difficult path, this publishing road? For me, it hasn't been easy. I don't do easy simply because for me, cutting corners robs me of valuable lessons. Education. Learning the craft and continually polishing the product.

Perhaps my analogy to Sudoku appears to some a bit like comparing apples to oranges. Yet, it speaks of who I am. The thrill I felt in mastering a not-so-simple puzzle exemplified my character. I am not a "can't do it" person.

Success comes to those who try, the ones who never give up.

Gold Finger(s)

"Think of it as the James Bond principle of writing assignments. The closer you get to zero hour, the more surefire and exhilarating your writing--like Bond's day-saving solution--should be." Kyle Morrison

I grabbed this quote directly from my Facebook pages, made by my good friend and awesome furniture mover, Kyle Morrison. It was his response to another one of my whiny comments regarding writing, and why I was procrastinating via Facebook when I should have been pushing the pen.

After I glared at the comment for all of ten seconds, the solution to my angst materialized. Whenever faced with an actual deadline, in my case, writing assignments for college credits, I always waited until a week to a few days before its due date. Rarely did I begin thinking about it when the professor dictated the assignment. Sure, I'd mull it over for a bit, and maybe commence cursory research, but never sank my teeth in until the calendar closed in on the date. I'd then hunker down behind closed doors for an entire weekend, gathering research and pounding out a draft. Usually by Sunday night the final paper was ready for turning in on its due date, which was usually that week, or on some occasions, the next day.

Did I mention that I've never gotten less than an A on any paper I wrote for college? My U.S. History professor remarked on a piece I wrote about Thomas Paine that it was above college level writing. It took about eight hours the previous weekend to complete. (Seriously. I'm not making this up. If I knew how to use my new scanner, I'd provide a copy showing his comments. But alas, I don't, so you all will just have to take my word for it.)

In my English Lit. classes the professor always had us free-write for about five minutes at the beginning of every class. Sometimes he used prompts, others he'd just let us wing it. The idea, he would say, was to release your conscious and feel the words from your gut. It was an amazing exercise for me. My pen moved like it was filled with grease for ink.

Buzzer shot writing, that's what I called it. And now that I've been in this slump, and thanks to Kyle's brilliant analogy, I can see the problem I faced. NO GOAL. NO DUE DATE. ZERO-ZIP-NADA-DEADLINE. Believing that the magic would reappear, well, magically, was merely an excuse for not writing.

The magic never died. My motivation did. I've whined about this on and off at this blog, in particular, this one. This person, who, because that's just her wonderful way, ran to my rescue. She hooked me up with a writing group that focuses on writing one hundred words per day for one hundred days.

One of my biggest excuses for not writing was that I needed a huge block of time in order to write. The theory behind writing one hundred words a day for one hundred days is that it takes minimal time each day, therefore it's easy to carve out a small bit of time in order to accomplish this goal.

GOAL: The magic word missing in my writing repertoire. Even the smallest of writing goals, in this case, one hundred words a days, not only keeps me connected to my writing, but magically multiplies into more. One hundred words isn't a big challenge. Since beginning this regime on May 4, I've written 1,881 new words, which translates to seven and a half new pages. Like eating M&M's, I couldn't stop after the first hundred. Gold! I struck gold! (And thank heavens I can stop eating M&M's after the first hundred.)

Another day. Another one hundred words and more.

What motivation is lacking in your writing life? What gets you back on track?

Bite me deeply.

In the paraphrased words of Edie Ramer, if I write three pages a day, that's over a thousand pages a year.

I haven't written a single page of anything since the ball dropped on 2010. But today, approximately fifteen minutes ago, I hand wrote three pages of gibberish. The instep of my thumb ached afterward. I thought of Edie's words when I finished, smiled and fired up the blog. She's today's inspiration, a person who keeps on giving while never giving up.

Why three pages? A few years ago I discovered The Artists Way by Julia Cameron. The text taught methods to overcome obstacles, which included writing "morning pages," three pages of random gibberish first thing in the morning. Religiously I wrote three pages each morning while the coffee brewed and the eye goop still festered. I had once mentioned this to Edie, and thus her paraphrased comment above.

After two or three years of morning page regimen, I slowly discontinued them. It was hard writing the very first thing in the morning, especially after Monster Chihuahua took up residence.

But then the habit of writing was lost, too.

Writing. The one thing that sustained my life took a back seat to my life. Until this afternoon when I forced myself to just do it. A blank tablet of paper sat beside me, so I picked it and a pen up and started the ride. I felt released from captivity. Fresh air rushed into my gray matter.

I felt all writerly. Ready to begin something new. But, but, but...

I know I need to ease my way back in just like an athlete in rehab (for a physical injury and not the Tiger kind). My gut tells me to take it slowly, three pages per day until of week of gibberish has gone by. That's my plan...

Like a recovering addict, I need a program. I need to make a plan that feels right, one that acts like a crutch to my dwindling confidence. And similar to the twelve step program, I'm relying on faith, my Monster Chihuahua constant proof of its power.

Any words of wisdom are greatly appreciated, and feel free to share the longest word drought, if any, you've had. How did you get it back into gear?

Reinvention: The Other Side of Me

Tennessee Williams' name was formerly Thomas Lanier Williams; he dropped the first and middle names, adopting the name of a state where he didn't live (he originated in Mississippi, which would have sounded weird). Thereafter his art soared to a new level, or as Gore Vidal stated in a new introduction of The Judgment of Paris, "An entirely new and splendid writer had spun his way out of what had originally been a moth's chrysalis."

Vidal himself did the coccoon mambo, further stating in the introduction, "My first novels were written in what I called 'the national manner'; as flat literal naturalistic style. Then I came to write this book (The Judgement of Paris)."

In shedding his old style, his career spanned decades, still writing to this day.

As I read the intro to Judgment I saw myself there, my style a blend of what I thought worked and what I'd learned from others. My days of direction and focus slowly diluted to ones of aimless meanderings.

Recently by choice I quit writing, knowing that I was going around in circles, which always leads to the same conclusion. My gut said it was time to quit; my heart said, "But you'll be back." After letting life have its way with me the past month and a half, which included suffering the loss of my dog, dealing with a new home and the stress of selling the old one, I felt the cocoon fold around me.

While in chrysalis I found a new direction - grew new wings. But rather than leap into the air blindly, I'll slowly unfold and let the breeze take me through what's to be. And although I'm a few weeks out from sitting down and actually diving back into my Epic In Progress, I'll do so with a clean slate and strong wings - no crumbs for the hungry inner critic to savor.

I have my support systems in place; they know who they are and never left my side throughout (special thanks to Edie, Erica O, LaDonna, Marcia & Nancy) - wonderful writers who've supported me through my journey to limbo and back. I'm fortunate to know this special group of talent.

No regrets - that's my life and there's nothing I'd change.

P.S. I'M BACK!

It Takes a Village to Write a Book

I'll admit it. I never understood the reason to have a crit-partner, thinking that a story only needs one author. Right? Wrong. Call me St. Paul, but I have seen the light. I've felt the conversion from "know-it-all" to "don't-know-all-but-learning."

In theory, I'm a great writer, theory meaning it's what I tell myself in order to keep the inner critic's mouth shut. Besides, if I don't believe in myself, who will? But, the fact remains that without the helpful eyes of others, my work goes untested. It's just so-so, and other than friends and relatives telling me they "love" my writing, they're friends and relatives. Either they haven't written anything, or they want to say what they think I want to hear.

I don't want to hear accolades. I want the truth. And the only way I'll get the truth is from someone who knows what it takes to make my work better. Thus, an extra set of eyes necessary, keen ones that tell it like it is, even if it makes me cry.

I didn't cry. In fact, I wanted to book a flight to Raleigh just so I could hug and hug her. After sending her a chapter from my Epic In Progress, Marcia Colette said, "Oh honey, there's nothing happening in this chapter," or something like that.

Exactly what I needed to hear. Not only did she slap me up the side of my head, but she then beat me down to a pulp pointing out other errors of my ways.

That's what friends do. They care enough to let you have it, fearless of the outcome. And I'm finding that it takes more than moi to write a great book. Mind you, others have read my work. There was all those contest entries where I received good/bad/use-what-you-can-can-what-you-can't feedback. And let's not forget the agent rejection via a phone call, praising my voice, hating the main character. Those all helped me develop a thick-skin, however, Marcia backed up her claims with specific advice, ideas and details.

She pointed out why the main character wasn't cutting it and advice on how to improve him, that the back-story dumping should be removed but saved somewhere in order to use bits of it later, and finally, to make the prologue the first chapter (I wanted to dump it - but she convinced me otherwise).

Epiphany is a great thing. I still believe in myself, but I now realize that it takes more than that to arrive at greatness. I find that it's essential to put aside all the stubbornness, ego, and other rot that doesn't get the story into the hands of a savvy agent. It's time to wake up and accept the fact that in order to survive in this business, you gotta have friends who aren't afraid to be honest - friends caring enough to set you on the right path to success.

Maybe in my pre-epiphany phase I feared hearing the truth. Perhaps somewhere deep down I believed I could do this all by myself. Wrong again, and I've never been happier to admit that. Marcia knows me well and maybe that's key. And it's not that we're "crit-partners," it's that we've developed a bond over the years that breathes instinctual, no-holds-barred trust.

I believe all writers like to see others succeed. Maybe that's naive on my part, but in the circle of friends I've made since embarking on the road to publication, we all have each others backs. For instance, take my friend Edie Ramer, who once again has made it through to another round of The Romantic Times' American Title V contest. A few years back I needed help with a great agent hook. No one hooks like Edie. I sent her what I had; she sent back her suggestions, and I'll be damned, it was so brilliant that those I tested it on said, "Now that's a story I want to hear more about," or something like that. Suffice it to say, it kicked some serious buttocks, and that hook's going into my query, once I get that particular manuscript ready for the ride.

See? Writers want other writers to succeed. I want Edie to succeed like I'm the one in the American Title V contest. Since I'm not, myself and all my alter-egos have voted for Edie at votes@romantictimes.com. You can read her entry here, and then cast your vote, putting "DEAD PEOPLE" in the subject line of your email.

Returning from that segue, I'll conclude with this thought: That the greatest writers didn't get to where they are today on ego. I believe it was with a little help from their friends that got them there. It has to be the case, otherwise there wouldn't be all those lengthy acknowledgments at the end of most books, right? Perhaps the day will come that I won't need the extra help, but I can't imagine not wanting it.

So what say you, my fellow writing aficionados? Crit-groups, crit-partners, beta-readers, or go it all by your lonesome?

Don't forget to vote for my friend Edie.

Dead People On the Move!

Well, she went and did it again. The talented Ms. Edie Ramer, through her brilliant writing, made it to the next round of Romantic Times' American Title Five contest.

From today, December 15, to December 29, the voting will be open. And it's so simple that you and all your alter-egos can handle it. Merely send an email to votes@romantictimes.com, with the title, "Dead People" in the subject line. Oh, and you can read hers and all the other entries at the Romantic Times web site, but I'm telling you, Edie's is the best one. All my alter-egos think so. Soon we'll be referring to her as La Edie. That's my prediction. This contest will launch her career and next thing she'll know, she'll be sitting on a best sellers' list, and remember:

A vote for Dead People is a vote to keep Edie's dream alive.

Just DO IT!

Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

In today's mailbag, a/k/a, my Yahoo email, was one from my pal, writer extraordinaire, Edie Ramer (whom you better vote for - time's awaisting). The subject: I Love Your Blog! She was awarded it, and then passed it along to me, and six others. As recipient of the award, I need to pass it along to seven other blogs that I love.

But before doing that, I have to say how truly honored I am because I know Edie visits plenty-o-blogs. She knows good when she sees it. :) Her reason for choosing my blog assured me that I'm on the right path to my goal.

I believe that in order to achieve success one has to surround themselves with like-minded people, thus visiting writers' blogs that bestow great wisdom and insight into the writing beast's mouth. It's what keeps us afloat as we swim against the tide, which at times feels like a tsunami. And through the blog-hopping mambo, I have found that writers are stars in their own right - a galaxy imploding with a constant glimmering pulse.

Sure, maybe I'm making writers sound like a bunch of self-righteous ego maniacs. I'm just saying that it's necessary for writers to view themselves as the next best selling novelist. That each time they look at their work in progress, they should hum the tune depicted above. (And if you haven't played it yet, do it so this makes sense to you.) I used to hum it all the time, then got out of the habit, or the tune slipped away in the black hole known as my brain, but thanks to Edie, it's back now, baby!

And without further adieu, here are seven blogs that I love:

1. Magical Musings, a group of four talented women's fiction authors. It's a one-stop blog hop extravaganza filled with not only mind boggling ideas, but really cool author interviews and book reviews, too.

2. Erica Orloff, whose blog intrigues me with its constant diversity. I admire Erica's ability to produce a new blog every day while juggling her writing career while chasing a three (?) year old. She's the Wonder Woman of the writing world.

3. Spy Scribbler. She hooked me during the Presidential Elections with her constant YouTubes and insightful viewpoints. Now that the confetti is all but colorful garbage in some landfill, Spy still continues to inspire my thoughts, as well as prop me up when I'm feeling weary.

4. Robin Bielman. What can I say except her blog makes me laugh and laugh and laugh. Not to mention, she's about the only other person I know who loves "Dexter".

5. Mark Terry. I ran across Mark via Erica Orloff's blog. His comments had me rolling on the floor, and also hinted that we share the same tortured souls and sick humor. I'm now his blog stalker.

6. Jude Hardin. Another guy I admired from afar at Erica's blog. One day he posted a comment at her blog suggesting to visit his blog, so what the hell, I did. He hooked me with granting permission to cuss in my posts. Gotta love a guy who lets me do that.

7. Last but never least, Marcia Colette, my twin sister. No one on this writing planet has done for me what she has, such as garnering me a scholarship to attend an RWA Conference by writing a heart wrenching letter to whomever gives out the scholarships. Why did she do it? Felt sorry for my half-blindness, perhaps, but I later found out it was because she wanted to meet me in person, and figured that was the only way to make it happen. Suffice it to say, she gives great letter, so it's no wonder why she's also a fabulous writer.

So there you have it, folks. My Magnificent Seven, making up the brightest constellation any galaxy has ever seen.

Art says he don't get art....

Several blogs I've visited this week have had an artsy theme to them. Erica Orloff compared herself to a Jackson Pollock painting, while Jude Hardin posed a question regarding books as works of art.

And since I can't resist any conga line that weaves by, I'm hopping on, today's blog inspired by my desk calendar, a pseudo art book featuring daily quotes, some by artists. November 20th's featured art was "David Plays Before Saul" by Rembrandt. The accompanying quote, well suited to the week's blog-o-sphere theme, is as follows: "Whenever I see a Frans Hals I feel like painting, but when I see a Rembrandt I feel like giving up!" Max Liebermann said it, a reputable artist in the German Impressionist circles. To the left is his piece called, appropriately, "The parrot-man".

Don't you just love a man who can handle his bird?

Liebermann's quote jumped up and smacked me hard, similar to the way Edie Ramer does whenever I whine (whom you should have voted for by now). I think Max expresses what some writers might feel at one time or another. Certain authors have a style that humbles us into submission, while others kick our muse into overdrive.

I know after I read a Christopher Moore novel, I can't wait to jump into my work, his irreverent style similar to mine. Lolly Winston, author of "Good Grief" and "Happiness Sold Separately" is another. Her subject matter deals with broken relationships and emotionally bankrupt characters similar to mine. I just love them!

But I've never read a book that made me want to give up writing entirely. Sure, I have my days where I whine incessantly about the business and want to slit my throat, but I've yet to just up and quit. You'd have to poke out both my eyes to stop the constant feed of inspiration. It's next to impossible to entirely kill the spirit that drives us. Will I ever get a Pulitzer or Nobel? That's a when-hell-freezes-over rhetorical question, but my writing world doesn't collapse after I've read books by those who have won either or both.

I like to think of writers as snowflakes - looking alike in a group, but up close, entirely individual. No matter what the book or whom the author, each has followed the same haphazard writing process as the next - an invisible club where self-angst threads us all together in a beautiful tapestry of words, worlds and characters.

Writers are self-motivated machines, always able to pick up where they left off no matter how large the block that plagues us all at certain times. Yesterday I read part of my manuscript to my monster chihuahua, Lola, as she napped in my lap. I didn't take it personally that it put her to sleep, but reading it out loud juiced me up and got the motivation flowing again. That's what writers do. Subconsciously we're always able to unplug whatever has clogged the flow. Reading to Lola did that for me.













So if reading my own, unpublished, work motivates me, it stands to reason that reading someone else's published book will kick my muse into overdrive, and not be so humbled by it that I can't write another word. Hell to the no it won't!

How about you? Ever get tangled up by someone else's prose, or does it juice you up?

Stranger Than Fiction

I have a friend, Edie Ramer, (pictured here) who is a finalist in the American Title V contest, which is similar to American Idol, except it doesn't have any weepy, semi-sober judges. And now that I've mentioned it, you, too, can vote for my friend. Just send an email to votes@romantictimes.com and put in the subject line "Dead People" (that's the name of her book - Dead People - an instant winner). She'll win a contract with Dorchester Publishing after all the votes are in.

But I'm not bringing the American Title V contest up so you will vote for my friend, Edie Ramer, writer extraordinaire, or so that you will check out the American Title V contest, which has launched the careers of many fabulous authors, such as my friend, Edie Ramer, whom you should vote for.

No, no. Today's blog is about me, yet inspired by Edie (whom you should have voted for by now). At a blog I frequent, Spy Scribbler, Edie pimped herself on Thursday, November 13. At the end of her guest spot, she requested of posters to list their favorite "first line" of any of their works. Right away, I went to each of my manuscripts, eager to post one of my favorite first lines. I love it when asked to pimp myself. The only problem was, my first lines sort of made me want to barf, but that's okay, they're drafts. I'll fix them... some day.

Where to find a great first line that won't make anyone else barf? I wondered. Far be it from me to create a cyber-vomitorium. So I continued sweeping my works, finally clicking onto a folder marked "Honors English." Still no great first lines, but I went with a great second line that could have passed for a first. It came from a creative non-fiction essay, and was my first college level A.

Edie loved it. Edie knows good when she sees it. For me, it slapped me up the side of my head and said, "Hello? Shouldn't you be registering for next semester?"

(Rewind: I started my college career last year - the world's oldest Freshman.)

I was supposed to return to school this year, but had to withdraw due to the damned eye malfunction. At this rate it'll take me five years to complete a two year program, but I'll do it even if it takes six. Today I took the first step - I picked out three courses for the Spring semester which I'll register for on Monday (because that's when registration starts). They are as follows: Stress Reduction Through Exercise - 2 PE credits (God knows, I really need that one); Creative Writing II- 3 English credits (I really need the help); Women in Contemporary Society - 3 Honors credits (fits me to a tee).

Credits already under my belt: 12
Credits assumed to get next semester: 8
Credits remaining for my Associates in Liberal Arts: 44

Hmm, 44 doesn't look like a lot to conquer. I could cram a few more course in during the summer. Wow! I might actually obtain my degree in three years! I just have to buckle down somewhere along the way and take some science and math, which of the latter I deplore. But I can do it, because...

I'm perpetually inspired my successful friends, such as Edie Ramer, whom by now you REALLY REALLY should have voted for via an email to votes@romatictimes.com, in the subject line, DEAD PEOPLE.

So my stage is set, subliminally put into motion by my little friend, Edie. Thanks, Edie. May your expected success rub off on many, but especially me.

Now go vote for my friend!