I am the champion

I. Did. It.

I actually completed NaNoWriMo. I wrote 50,000 words. In one month. In 28 days, to be specific. And I wrote the final words wearing a Santa hat. Which just makes it that much cooler.

Is it dorky that I'm so insanely proud of myself right now? Before I decided to do NaNoWriMo, I had literally written nothing besides my blog and a few columns for the Columbus Dispatch in four years. And in one month, I wrote something that was longer than my entire graduate thesis. Which means I can totally still do it. Whether it's any good or not remains to be seen. But still. I totally did it.

The only bad thing: the novel isn't actually finished yet. Which is actually a good thing, because it gives me something to keep working towards. And then the revision process, and then, who knows? Maybe try to find an agent? I don't know. The world might not be ready for the John Boston story yet. But when it is, kapow, watch out, America.

All I know is that I totally did it. And I am totally going to Cracker Barrel right now to celebrate. Because that's the way that we high-velocity novelists roll. Awwww, yeah.

NaNoWriMo Update: Day 1

Hey, I promise not to turn this into a you-go-girl NaNoWriMo blog, but their website is down right now, so I have nowhere to brag-- so far today, I've logged 1,707 words, which is slightly over my daily goal. Which, of course, means that I am THE GREATEST NOVELIST THAT EVER LIVED!

Gateway to Fame

This is my very first blog post from my brand new Gateway computer, which I just assembled (myself! Because I'm a can-do kind of gal) and which, for the first time ever in my long and storied history of hooking up computers (as opposed to hooking up with computers, which would be weird and sort of dirty) had Internet access immediately upon start-up. Normally, I have to fist fight the computer to make this happen, or perform a series of tasks like building a small fire in my living room and burning one of my favorite stuffed animals as a sacrifice.

And I have to tell you, I have high hopes for this computer. Because I have decided to pretend that the only reason I have not written the great American essay collection since leaving grad school is because of my old laptop, which I was given by my parents upon graduation. I never really got used to writing on the laptop, and therefore used it pretty much for listening to music and playing ridiculous amounts of Tumble Bees.

But things are different now. Now, I've got the whole desktop thing going on (with a stupidly large flat screen monitor in HD, which seems sort of unneccessary when typing out blog posts that are rapidly turning out to be mundane), with the keyboard where it should be and the mouse and the speakers and the whatnot.

Point is, I now officially have no excuse not to write. So please, if I haven't pumped something out by Christmas, someone come after me. Because this computer is too nice to waste on Tumble Bees.

Requiem for a Dying Computer

I came home to find the black screen of death on my computer today-- even more ominous than the blue screen of death, which at least has writing on it, the black screen just stares at you, a yawping maw of desolation and emptiness. "I ate your thesis," it says. "And all your pictures, and that live recording of Barenaked Ladies performing 'McDonald's Girl' that you worked so hard to find."

Luckily, Ben was able to resurrect the computer through a complex process of unplugging and plugging the power cord and hitting random buttons-- apparently, the escape key is now somehow imperative to the start-up of the computer for some reason, as is that weird Spanish squiggly button. But I know this laptop isn't long for this earth, so the time for harvesting its bounty has begun.

I actually discovered the black screen of death right before I had to drive to my parents' house to pick up a chainsaw, which isn't as interesting of a story as it sounds, so I'll omit it here. But on the way there, I found myself musing over what I really would have lost if I came back and the computer couldn't be saved. In the past, this concept has driven me to insane, panicky tears-- what if I never get to hear "Oh Sherry" again? But tonight, it didn't seem so bad.

After all, I did the smart thing and saved all my digital pictures to CDs the last time the black screen of death darkened my door, along with all my important word documents, including the fragments of the fabled John Boston Story, which is the worst novel ever written, and which I've been working on since I was thirteen, so at least that would be saved for the ages. And maybe it was time to admit that I never, ever wanted to hear "You Spin Me Right Round" ever again. I could rebuild my music collection, make it bigger, better, far less embarrassing ("Pray," by MC Hammer? Really?).

But thanks to the random button poking of my computer savvy husband, I have been given a second chance. Maybe now I can finally use this computer to write something of substance-- my entire thesis was actually composed on my old computer, and the John Boston story was from the computer before that. Maybe, in its dying days, this computer can become home to my masterpiece.

And then, just to be a dick, it will eat it.

Shaby's back-- back again

I. Am. Officially. Back.

Because as you may have noticed? I've kind of been maybe? A bad blog owner. Not just in my lack of postings, but rather in the quality of the postings that have gone up in the last, oh, say, year. Or so.

But get this-- I'm married. I did it. We bought a house. We did it. And until I have a baby, I can officially go back to being a normal human being. Of outrageously awesome hilariousness.

Throughout this whole getting married, buying a house process, I found myself really wanting to post on my blog, but not really having anything interesting to say. I contemplated deleting it, and just succumbing altogether to my life of audit manager-ness. But I could never bring myself to do it-- my blog is as close as I come-- right now, anyway-- to being an actual writer, as opposed to a relatively funny but mostly indistinguishable insurance drone.

That guy at work, that always tells the jokes, that comes to your cube and then won't leave and you kind of want to kill yourself? I was becoming that guy.

So once the move was complete, I decided-- the blog was back in action. And as evidenced by my severely awesome new background, you can see I totally mean business.

Since readership has dwindled to pretty much Ashley, Alan and my Aunt Kathy (hi, Aunt Kathy!), I realize I'll have to work pretty hard to regain your interest. But please, give me a chance-- I promise not to disappoint. And if I do disappoint? I promise to turn in my MFA and start studying for my CPCU (which, for those of you who don't know, is an insurance designation-- which means I just made an insurance joke, which means I have to go kill myself now, if you'll excuse me).

So please, if I promise not to talk about getting married, or buying a house, ever again? Will you please read this? Because I'm totally all about talking about anything but that, and if you're into it, too, you will be granted one ticket onto Battleship Awesome. For reals.

To write or not to write?

I went out with my friend Denise tonight, which is fantastic, because Denise is one of the few people with whom I can have truly melodramatic conversations without later feeling like a retard. The conversation in question: is it time for me to give up writing?

The reason I asked is this: I spend a lot of time at work looking around and thinking-- this was not supposed to happen. Don't get me wrong, I do actually love my job-- as much as one can love auditing, not an inherently lovable profession-- but it's not exactly what I spent $13,000 (and my parents spent significantly more) for me to study. There is at least one moment a day in which I think-- I should be writing. And I'm not. Ergo, I am a failure.

So back to the original question: should I give up writing, even the possibility of writing, so that I can stop beating myself up about not doing it?

Denise, thankfully, thinks not. And I put a large stock in what Denise thinks, so I'm hoping to give it another try, even though

• I have no good ideas
• The good ideas I do have revolve around people I know, and they're not exactly flattering ideas that they might want shared with the general public
• I am very, very tired of staring at a computer after a long day of auditing
• Writing would take away from valuable time that could be spent playing Guitar Hero, which I am also very good at

But I think I need a jump start. Denise had a really good idea: write a sizable check to an organization that I don't want to receive my money-- say, the Church of Scientology-- and give it to a friend. If I don't produce some writing by a predetermined deadline, said friend puts the check in the mail.

That might be a bit extreme, especially since I don't want Tom Cruise dancing on any couches with my money, considering he still owes me for Vanilla Sky. But something along those lines. Anyone have any suggestions?

What's the frequency, readers?

Okay, let's not beat around the bush-- I am not blogging as much as I should be. I understand that, but as of late, I have also come to understand a terrible truth:

I'm just not as in to blogging as I used to be.

I don't know why-- part of me thinks that (downer alert) I might be having a little bit of a depression problem again (which might be great, because as everyone knows, I'm at least 30% more hilarious when depressed, although 90% of you aren't actually around me to witness it). But then, it might be that The Part That Wants to Start Writing a Book is becoming more aggressive, and wants more time for that. Although if that's the case, I wish it would just Get Started, as opposed to stranding me on the couch for hours a night either reading books by other people or, even worse, honing my Guitar Hero skills.

But either way, I've either got to shut the blog down, or get off my ass, because my posts just aren't good enough to sustain a twice-a-month posting schedule.

So here's what I propose-- from now until April 1, I will attempt to blog every day (barring times that I go out of town, which should only be once or twice), but the blog posts will probably only be a paragraph long, max.

Is this something you guys would be interested in? Or is the twice-monthly post sufficient? Or is it just time for me to hang up my spurs completely? Wait, don't answer that one. Because it's never really been a dream of mine to hear the phrase, "Yeah, it's probably better if you just quit writing now." If I want to hear that, I'll check in with my old poetry professor.

Please advise.

What you missed

So I know I've been away awhile, and that this is not a good start to my New Year's Resolution to Blog More. And I haven't really been doing all that much interesting, but in case anyone needs a quick catch-up:

*I have decided that I really don't like my new haircut. This was preceded by a few days in which I tried really hard to like it. But I just don't. It frizzes out easily, returning to the dreaded Vanessa Cosby Affair, after only a few hours. Also, it makes my face look weird.

*I'm about to finish reading Joe Perotta's The Abstinence Teacher, which is really good, but which I fear is about to come to a very abrupt end. I'm starting to notice a theme in Perotta's books, which I'm not too pleased with, because I never like writers who write the same thing again and again. Which is funny, since my entire thesis really should have been called Look At Me, I'm Ugly and Patently Uncool.

*Ben got my Guitar Hero III for my birthday, which I have already defeated on easy, because I rock hard. I'm now attempting to conquer it on medium, which is proving slightly more difficult, because apparently my pinky finger operates totally independently of the rest of my fingers, and just flails wildly between buttons.

*I've also been playing a lot of Brain Age on my Nintendo DS (I am a Nintendo loyalist, something that perhaps would make a great addition to Look At Me, I'm Patently Uncool Part 2: Slightly Better Looking. I have a brain age of 28, which is pretty impressive for someone who spends most of her time looking at Postsecret.com and reading the National Enquirer.

The biggest news I have is that I'm getting really close to getting back into writing. Not that I have any concrete ideas yet (sorry, those of you holding out for another incarnation of The John Boston Story), but I've been feeling compelled to write down all the weird crap I'm seeing every day, in hopes of sandwiching it into a book. I'm not sure where I'm planning on going, but I'm leaning towards a cubicle-based work drama (too bad for me, since the book Then We Came to the End did just that, and made the top 10 book list in several places). All I know is, I have procured the perfect journal pen, and am now in search of the perfect journal, which generally is either an orange spiral bound college ruled notebook, or a composition book. Both easily acquired at your friendly neighborhood Target, but I'm a little too mired in the Guitar Hero realm to work up the energy to score one.

So wish me luck-- if I do get into writing more, I might have to lay off the blog a bit, but my Write Something, Dammit resolution will generally trump my Blog More resolution if I can ever get up the nerve to get back on the horse.

By horse I mean writing. Not heroin, which I have never been on. Just to make myself clear. Although it might help with my rocking abilities.

Please and Thank You

The wedding has been over for almost two months, but I'm still struggling with getting my thank you cards out. Not that I'm not thankful-- really I'm nothing but thankful-- but the idea of writing 67 thank you cards makes my stomach clench up in the most unpleasant way.

There's also the added stress of being known as "the writer of the family," which is hilarious since I haven't written anything longer than a humor column on my insane urge to pee in like three years; but still, having this moniker comes with some expectations-- that you'll eventually write a best-seller and buy your dad a Ferrari; that Oprah may pick your book and yell excitedly about it in her weird baritone and millions of women will buy it and it will be made into a mini-series starring Kirstie Alley; and that you will write unique, one-of-a-kind thank you cards that accurately convey the true warmth and appreciation that one's contribution of a Deluxe Downy Ball Fabric Softener Gift Pack has afforded you.

So far, I have written ten of the aforementioned 67, but at least two need to be rewritten in light of recent developments (developments I could probably have avoided addressing in my already difficult thank you letters if I had gotten them done in October, as I had originally planned). And I am unsure when any more will be gotten to in light of the holiday season, which has T-boned me like a drunken Santa on a souped-up sleigh-- if I don't get my butt in gear, I'll have to add a sizeable amount of Christmas thank you cards to the pack.

To those of you whom I owe a thank you card, please rest assured that I am extremely thankful, not only for your gifts, but more importantly for your well-wishes and for daring to come to Cleveland in the first place (we have a lake!). The cards will be in the mail posthaste-- right after I make up my Christmas list, clean up my house, decorate for the holidays, get rid of the thirty pounds of wedding-related reading materials that I have acquired in the past year, attend a free showing of The Golden Compass, rearrange my Netflix list, make several batches of Chex Mix, and finish the three library books I started reading before Thanksgiving.

I promise.

Okay, so clearly I haven't exactly done anything to make this writing group happen yet. I think I was hoping that I would wake up one day and be some sort of writing group starting guru, or that woodland creatures would have just set the whole thing up for me, so I could just log on and look like a hero. Lest I appear to be an Indian-giver of writing group promises, I will get this thing up and running. I just need to overcome some general malaise, which mainly seems to stem from the fact that, now that the wedding is over, I have so much free time that I literally don't know what to do with it, so I do absolutely nothing.

This is not strictly true; Ben was out of town this weekend, so on my first weekend of alone time since long before the wedding, I accomplished the following things:

1. Bought speakers for my laptop, whose own internal speakers had died long ago.

2. Listened to the shitty music I have on my laptop through my new speakers (for instance, right this very second I am listening to the "Strongbad Techno" song from Homestar Runner, and I just got done listening to "P.I.M.P." Oh, and Genesis' "No Son of Mine" just came on, so I'm going to have to skip it so that I don't fall to the ground in a gelatinous goo of total gaywadness).

3. Packed away my summer clothes, so my closet is now capri-free.

4. Thought about writing thank you cards, a little.

5. Watched season 7 of The Simpsons, arguably among the best of the seasons. Actually, I like season 7 of the season better than I like the actual, real-life season of spring. So that's saying a lot.

6. Pretended like I was going to work on my craptastic novel that I've been working on since high school, but didn't fool anyone, so went and watched reruns of I Love New York II.

7. Made the best Chex Mix, like, fucking, ever.

Oh, and, Becki's boyfriend Joe, who just happens to be the Philadelphia Eagles Birdman, was in a promo spot during the third quarter of the Eagles game yesterday, so I watched that about seventeen times. God, I wish he had been at the wedding, so he could have done that squawk.

(Note: I forgot to skip "No Son of Mine," and I just noticed it's still playing. Why do I have this? Of all the Genesis songs I could have, why this one? I wonder if I have that one about the homeless people that was on this same album. God, I was obsessed with this album when I was in the fifth grade. That's why I grew up to be such a lameass.)

So this week, Ben and I are rededicating ourselves to doing post-wedding wrap-up stuff (which is not nearly as much fun as pre-wedding stuff, because I know there's not going to be a big party after I finally buy the stamps for the as-yet-unwritten thank you cards), and then maybe I'll be ready to start the writing group. Those of you who expressed interest, do not despair! I promise it is just over the horizon.

Although it appears I'm going to have to go through and delete some of my mp3s first.

The time is (almost) now

Just in the last couple weeks, I've been feeling compelled to start writing again. Not just blogging writing (becaue as I've proven, my blogging is a bit sub-par of late), but actual writing writing.

This is a big deal-- I know a lot of you out there left the MFA program and your day to day life changed very little. I, on the other hand, left school and immediately proceeded to not write anything for the last three and a half years. Essentially, I figured, I had written a (very short) book, and was now entitled to list my name as "Kim Shable, MFA" on my TV Guide subscription.

I think I was just burned out-- kind of the way a greyhound doesn't really feel the need to run after a few years chasing the rabbit. And I also met a sexy dude, and moved into his house, and so writing took a back burner to being a sexy beast.

But just lately, I've been thinking, "maybe I could write something." I don't even know for sure if I could anymore-- I might have too much insurance knowledge in my head right now to make room for anything made up.

So I was wondering-- if I were to start some sort of informal writing group, would anyone be interested in allying themselves to it? I might have to start slow, with prompts and word limits and the whole deal, so I can ease back into it (if I try to write a novel right now, my brain might get tired and give up and go watch reruns of Just Shoot Me).

Any interest? If not, no big. I can continue with my unchecked TV viewing alllll night.

Power of the Pen

If you could, please take a moment to wish my fabulous cousin Katie good luck on her Power of the Pen try-outs tomorrow-- I will attempt to hide my jealousy that I am no longer the best writer in the family!

For those of you who aren't from 'round these parts (although Power of the Pen might be a national thing? But I don't know, because I got my ass kicked at the state level, so I didn't really progress much beyond that), Power of the Pen is a writing competition open to seventh and eighth graders, in which the writers have a limited amount of time to write a short piece based on a prompt given at the start of the session.

My own Power of the Pen story is a tragic one-- in seventh grade, I was felled the evening before the local round of competition by a vicious stomach flu that left me unable to compete. On a side note, that same night I ate a homemade pizza, and, convinced that it had poisoned me and robbed me of my one chance to finally kick ass at a (admittedly nerdily academic) team "sport," I swore off pizza for the next four years.

In the eighth grade I made it to the aforementioned state level, only to be positively crushed, leaving me embittered. Oh, I still wrote-- most famously, I went on to complete the infamous John Boston novel, quite possibly The Worst Novel Ever Written By Anyone, Ever-- but it wasn't really until college that my urge to use writing as a form of ass-kicking-ness returned.

Based on the story that Katie read me tonight, though, I have no doubts that, if such a thing exists, she will make it to the nationals. And I will ride on her coat tails to glory!

Good luck, Katie!

You will bow to my Newberry Award Winning novel of awesome

I've been in a bit of a reading phase lately, although sadly, our library book sale isn't until next weekend (Pen, Megs, you lucky dogs). Although I'm currently wrapped up in Lolita-- one of my favorite books, although it always seems kind of pervy to admit, doesn't it?-- I just came out of a Young Adult binge (which seems even pornier when you throw in the Lolita situation), mostly focused around The Westing Game.

For those of you who have never read The Westing Game, I feel great pity and regret for your deprived and squandered lives. While you were out staying fit and basking in the sun, I was hunkered down on the living room couch, reading and rereading The Westing Game, a YA novel with a plot so intricate that I still have trouble fully comprehending it to this day.

This reading was preceded by The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death, and followed by From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, both of which involve probably my favorite YA theme-- young people run away from home and wind up involved with crazies.

All this YA reading has gotten me revved up to write my own YA book, an idea I've been toying with ever since my mentor Joe Mackall kindly informed me that what I thought of as my Very Important Novel With Deep, Deep Meaning would really be a hit with the tween crowd. (I really do think he meant this as a compliment, but as I was expecting to win the National Book Award with it, and not the Newberry, I was a bit bummed.)

I'm not quite sure what my book will be about yet, but I think it will involve the following:

• Doing It


• Unexpected teen pregnancy (not on the part of the narrator, because that is SO DONE)


• Men fistfighting (because fistfighting is hot hot hot)


• Probably some sort of complex series of clues leading to the identity of a killer/the father of the baby/a vast Papal conspiracy

It will probably also be set around the turn of the century, like another of my favorites, The Callender Papers. This, I realize, might hamper my Doing It/unexpected teen pregnancy angle, but could really benefit the Men Fistfighting angle, as men seemed to do that a lot back then.

Why I am a narcissist (or not)

This may seem random, but hear me out:

I have a friend-- his name is Jared, most of you don't know him, but he's a great guy in an awesome band-- who once asked me why I choose to only write about myself. This is a question that has been posed to me on many occasions-- by friends, professors, people on my blog who are tired of hearing my every pissant thought.

The main reason for this is not, in actuality, narcissism-- it is because I am the only living person on the planet that I can write about without fear of backlash, or getting things wrong. I will not, for instance, refuse to speak to myself at Thanksgiving if I choose to reveal that I once sort of went to the bathroom in the back of a friend's car, nor will I freak out if I say that my favorite food is sloppy joes, when it is actually astronaut ice cream (both excellent fare, in my opinion).

I realize that, one day, I will have to write about other people if I really want to be successful; after all, David Sedaris wouldn't have gotten all that far without the Rooster, or Hugh, or the Incomplete Quad. But this prospect seriously scares the crap out of me, mainly because one day, when I was in Advanced Reporting in college, I got yelled at for about an hour by a woman I had apparently misquoted in an article I wrote for the school paper (even though I sort of had what she said on cassette tape, and specifically asked if we were on the record), and I really, really, really hate being yelled at.

But in the meantime, I think I'll stick to writing about myself. I may be my own worst critic, but at least I can't sue me. I don't think.

The Dark Underbelly of Journaling

I have had a lot of inquiries as to whether my sudden new need to return to journaling means that I will cease to blog-- it may appear as though I have already ceased to blog, given the infrequency of my postings and their sudden white hot lameness-- but fear not, as this is not the case. The lack of postings is simply because not much of note has occurred to me lately, and I am in a period of oscillating between Totally Unoriginal Thought ("I think Dame Edna just might be a man!") and Entirely Too Original Thought ("Have you ever noticed that when some fireworks go off, they look like big round balls that are racing right at your head?"), neither one of which really lend themselves to blogging.

And as for the journaling, I'm still debating whether I should even go back to it. Because as Cue pointed out, there is now an actual person in my house who could read it, whereas before I was perfectly comfortable just leaving my journal out in plain view (except when I lived with Dan, and practically buried it in a pile of my own feces to keep him from getting near it). Not that I think Ben would read my journal, and not that I would write anything bad about him in it. But the fact that he could read it if he wanted to...

Also, it turns out that not all of my journals were as genius as the Letter of Feelings journal. The journal that immediately follows it, the I Wish I Were Way More Important Journal, is rather annoying. Apparently, I felt that my life had no impact on anyone else's life whatsoever, by which I mean that they did not weep and tear out their hair every time I exited a room. It does contain this eerily prescient paragraph, however, written directly before a non-fiction workshop that I feared was going to go poorly (eerily prescient, is that a Wendy-ism?):

"I'm getting really antsy and upset all the sudden. Like I know everyone will be disappointed. Oh, brilliant. Why don't I just go get a job in insurance?"

So, the point is: I am still blogging, and I may begin journaling, as soon as I can scrape together enough stuff to modge-podge onto the cover of a composition notebook, which is really the only good journal (mainly because of its ability to hold modge-podge). Also, I am glad that I am past both the Letter of Feelings portion of my life (in which I was a hilarious psycho) and the Why Aren't There More Lifesized Posters of Me Everywhere phase of my life (when I was a pathetic crybaby psycho). Now, I am just a normal person, although still hilarious, and now much better looking. And obviously, still quite modest.

Also, as an unrelated update, Ben and I are about to start our sixth week of non-smoking! Go go gadget cleanlungs!