Hells and I met up for our monthly writing meeting the second Saturday of the month like usual. Goals had been set (and almost met!), agendas planned, food made and topics ready; and I brought a guest. None other than the GPS. Through the years, the GPS and I have been the closest of friends and the fiercest of allies, yet both of us struggle to portray that type of character on paper. Hells was gracious enough to allow the GPS aboard again to bring you the topic of friends and what you would and wouldn’t do for them.

***

The Grand Pixy Sita here again bringing you the latest news from Booty magazine. I’ve got the hottest scoop on the new rage, Vajazzling. Some of you may remember the bedazzler. If you owned or operated a bedazzler, you will be more familiar with this new fad. If you’re not, maybe you can remember the phase where everyone was covering things with rhinestones. It was all about the bling; cell phones, cameras, PDAs, etc. Well, this fad is the beautiful and sparkling combination of both.

The world of the vajayjay has never looked brighter. I am headed out to investigate this brave new world and see what kind of people are really into this new taboo. Are there shops like body piercing? Is this a strictly DIY project? Is it a closet, I’m only going to trust my best friend, project?

It didn’t take much research to determine this was a DIY project. DIY with a close personal friend. (Though the tattoo artist seemed game, I didn’t feel I could trust him. Call me paranoid.) So I decided to ask my friends. They’re game, right? They’d take a bullet for me. What’s a little hot box blinging amongst friends?

As luck would have it, I happened to be flying past the RWR and was able to drop by and see my good friends Hells and Sin. A couple bottles of rum, and I’d have more material than I would ever need for my article. Jazzling Amongst Friends—I could see the title now. While I hoped they would have some insight for my article, I secretly hoped one of them had been in the closet and now had a sparkling hooha they were willing to show off like a sequined purse.

“So, Sin, have you heard of Vajazzling?”

“Have you been drinking and flying again?”

“You know, Sin,” Hells piped up, “We were blogging about it last week. In the comments. You know… the sparkles… down… well… there… you know… it.”

“So, Hells, you know about it, eh?  Have you secretly had it upgraded lately?” I was simply drooling in anticipation. A break in the story! Pixy dust was flying everywhere as my sweet little wings were buzzing in the air.

“NO. Are you kidding Sita? Why on earth would I have that done? Can you imagine the conversation of explaining where I’d want the rhinestones put? Apparently I’m the only person on this ship who refers to my special place as an it. No, thank you.”

Who knew the Captain was such a sharer?

“Well… if you ever wanted to really make your special place special—“ how I kept from laughing I don’t know—“I just so happen to have some adhesive and some beautiful blue jewels. We could have fun.”

Hells gave me a Look. “So I could have a matching blue box to go with my boyfriend’s blue….”

Sin leapt into the fray, clearly concerned for my safety. Hells was looking like someone who’d pull the wings off flies, let alone mouthy pixies. “Hells, I told you Sita would do it if you asked. She is such a freak like that.” Okay, maybe she didn’t love me that much. She had a hateful smile on her face.

Still, if she was reckless enough to step in front of the Captain, she’d surely be up for a little harmless redecorating. What was this really but a sparkly version of a bikini wax? If you could have a bikini wax done without blinking an eye, what was the big deal about gluing on crystals?

“You know, Sin, I’m not always that predictable. I’m actually trying to get out of the smut business and work for a real publication like the Treasure Chest. Unfortunately I’m having some trouble with my real investigative writing. Apparently my editors and my agent feel like I’m only suited to be the star reporter for Booty magazine. It’s not like I’ve done anything that wild. It’s not like I’ve uploaded my own video to Argtube or anything. No one has any official record of me doing anything raunchy to me or anyone else. Especially not that hot little thing I was stalking a while back. Come on, you guys have to help me. I really need a story—a human interest story about the power of friendships—to break my way in… Right after we vajazzle Hells.” I batted my eyelashes. “You know, for the sake of friendship.”

Sin and I both had a devilish look on our faces, but Hells merely drew her sword and gave the Look again. “Don’t even think about it. We’re not that good of friends.” Then she left. Poor crabby Captain. She could use some bling for her box. Then she could stop calling it an it.

“You know, Sita, if you come anywhere near me with those jewels of yours, I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t worry, Sin, we aren’t that good of friends.”

So my fellow pirates, help a fellow Pixie out: how do you write believable friendships? The kind of friendships that last and are true, the kind where you’d walk through hell and back, or in this case, let someone vajazzle you?

“O Come, O Come Emmanuel” Casting Crowns. There is something about this instrumental song that brings me back to it over and over again. It’s been repeated over 300 times in my iTunes. It’s not at the record of my repeats. I’ve listened to Eclipsed (Evans Blue) almost 500 times.  (Love that song. Still need to write a blog in regards to that song. Hm, will put that on the burner for next time.)

Since I’ve gotten back into my writing, I’m finding that pounding out blogs each week is a little easier for me. Creatively, my well is feeling dry; but my brain is functioning at a higher level than usual. I’m trying to keep in mind that my year horoscope said I’m in for big successes and big life changes. I’m gearing it towards writing because I need all the positive influence and karma I can get at this point. I’ve become more of a circus act trying to pull everything together for entertainment purposes than a multi-tasker so far this year.

Writing for me is much like a production. You have all these players practicing their parts, learning their roles. Everyone has a purpose and a part to play. Like the circus. The main story is out for everyone to see. The daring acts, the high flying stunts and the stories we weave for the crowd, but underneath the surface lies the real truth. You play your part for the crowd, you turn it on when the light shines on you and when the light dims the real story begins.

My characters have taken on new life the last couple of weeks. Finally, I can hear them again through all the responsibility and chaos that has been my life for the past few months. Kiki is eager to get back to her life in the gray area and Sadie is ready to tackle life. Dex is ready to convince Kiki she can’t keep working her life alone and emotionally detached from everyone and everything. Ruiz is working pretty hard to convince me he should sleep with everyone. Ash is quiet. He’s always quiet. He’s making a case study of Kiki. Can’t say as I blame him. She’s pretty internal at this point. If I’d spent five years trying to locate someone who was legally dead in the system, I don’t know if I’d spend much time talking to someone I couldn’t trust any further than I could throw him.

Kiki’s emotional state is far from pretty. Her family is dead. Her life is one calculated risk after another. Kiki doesn’t care.

I’ve been told there is a fine line between making a character redeemable and making a character who turns into the bad guy at the end. Kiki is my tightrope walker.

Writing is a fairly new process to me. I’ve completed projects before. I know to seal the deal between characters. I know my way around a black moment. But this whole concept of reminding myself that a main character has to be redeemable is completely foreign. I know at this point I should just ignore all the rules and regulations but it’s one of those things that once someone puts it in my mind, I can’t let go.

Kiki can’t let go of the fact she’s alone in this world. She tells herself that it’s better for everyone if she remains that way, but when she’s alone at night, she spends her spare time looking for clues to Sadie’s whereabouts.

No one wants to be alone in the world. Not even Kiki, my uber headstrong stubborn main character.

I think I’ll just go with Kiki’s flow and see how we turn out. If she’s deemed unredeemable, well then maybe my writing is just unredeemable. I’m feeling rather indifferent about it at this point. Sort of like my apathy for V-day. It’s just another day in the record books.

More on that soapbox next week.

Do you have emotional tightrope walkers in your writing? How do you personally feel about your own writing and does that emotion sometimes bleed into your characters?

Song Choice of the week:  Rollin’- Limp Bizkit
Don’t ask. I’ve been in a really random selection mood. Stress at work is starting to take it’s toll on what little of my brain that still half-assed functions.

*cue busy tone* I’m sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please hang up and try again. *end busy tone*

So in the spirit of trying to accomplish something in this lifetime, I’ve decided the only way to do it is to lock myself in a dark room with just a computer and no internet and have at it. Otherwise, it will be in my next lifetime that the book is written.

I wonder if my reincarnate will have a darker mind than me. I’m also trying to imagine what that would be like. I once wrote about a guy having his fingers chopped off, thrown into a shark tank to start a feeding frenzy and then when he was of no use informational wise anymore, he was thrown into the tank and disposed of.

So a darker version of myself would use what? Flesh eating flies?

Ooh, that’s actually not a bad idea. Let me scribble that down for later.

Hells, in her infinite brilliance, gifted me a wonderful book during our last writing meeting. I don’t know if she was hinting that I should try out some new “experiments” or if she was merely suggesting that I try poisoning people instead of torturing and killing. The book, “The Book of  Poisons (A Writer’s Guide)” is super fascinating. We will completely ignore the fact that I know two-thirds of the book from personal experience. I think the most interesting thing I found was in the back of the book where it lists off in order which poison will cause a reaction the fastest.  Did you know that a Gila Monster is ranked higher than Acid.

And I’m not talking like psychedelic Acid- see hallucinations and trip balls; I’m talking flesh eating, burn like the depths of a fiery hell Acid.

So much like Renee, I had to go do some writerly investigating. Honestly, I can’t write with something like this in my head and not knowing the truth of the matter.

I went to the Wiki. Everyone knows how reliable the Wiki can be.

Stop giving me that look.

It is very unlikely on my trips to Arizona that I will die of a Gila Monster bite. Apparently they are slow and sluggish. But like snapping turtles, if they get a hold of you and clamp down, you’re screwed. The Wiki- in all it’s brilliance- says that you have to submerge a Gila Monster completely into water to get them to let go. Well, Wiki, have you been to the desert lately? Ever seen a puddle deep enough to submerge anything? If you’re clumsy enough to fall and get bitten by the slow ass Gila Monster, you better pray it’s the monsoon season (or right now because it’s been raining cats and dogs on the coast and in the southwest). Otherwise, you’ll hemorrhage from the poison and that’s probably not before a Rattler sneaks up on your ass and liquefies your bones into- well- liquid.

Still not clear how this is faster than Acid.

While I’m not particularly worried about plugging in random assault weapons and looking up F.B.I information for background research into my writing, there is something that stops me at putting, Gila Monster venom vs. Acid into my Google search. Like plugging that in is finally going to get me the red flag. I’m pretty sure they’ve been watching me for three years now.

“Why the hell does she need to know that?” *looking into the Google search and pulling up articles* “Did you know the odds from dying from a stray blow dart are 5 to 1?”

*scratching head* “Are you sure she’s some backwoods kid from Missouri?”

It gives me hives to think someone out there has probably pulled up my complete record and medical history merely because Google is the very devil and allows me to research anything and everything. I try not to think about it.

Lots of good stuff and food for thought on last week’s blog. I want to know how everyone feels about research and investigating. Half the fun of writing is learning new things to incorporate into your writing. Have you uncovered anything interesting you want to share with the rest of us? Anything useful stored in your back pocket about putting someone to sleep permanently that I might need to try out in my next scene?

(Good catch on the title. I owe you for that one.)

Look, I’ll take what I can get. Beggers can’t be choosers. Reminding me of death and destruction only tends to make me look at the bigger picture in life and how someday before I take my last breath, I’d like to say that I actually did what I set out to do. Write a novel. Get published. Feel like I’ve accomplished a sliver of the dream. January is filled with all these things you have to do every year (taxes, ugh) and just serves as a reminder that another year has passed and I’ve yet to accomplish what I’ve set out to do in my life.

I made a promise to myself this year that come hell or high water I’m going to jump out into the deep end and get it done. I have the means to do it. I have the ability to accomplish my goal. Now I have to figure out a way to beat my mind at its own game. Even if I drown trying to get there, at least I can say I attempted it.

Writing is mental war. Just like anything else, writing is worth all the sacrifices you have to make to get the end product. It just takes a little will and determination to set out on the path. Yet, I step two feet out onto the path and it feels like I’m sinking into quicksand. Four years ago, if you’d asked me if I’d contemplate writing a novel I’d made a very rude unladylike remark and laughed you all the way out the door. A lot of things change in four years. People change. Lives change. Circumstances change. Determination waivers. Critics and haters bum you out and make you second guess everything you’ve ever done. But your heart is always the same no matter what happens. Use your heart to rule over your mind. Your heart will always find a way.

I’ve always found a way. When I was a child, my mama told me I was the most bull-headed stubbornest child she’d ever come across. I don’t put off things to do tomorrow when I can do it today. I don’t drag my feet when it comes to responsibility. I spent most of my teenage years living life full speed ahead, yet since I’ve gotten to be an adult, I’ve lost touch with the very thing that makes me… Me. That spark is what lit my fire in those early days of writing. All the pain and sadness and loneliness, fear I poured into my characters. The newness of finding my voice and finding a rhythm helped me when nothing else would’ve touched me. I felt alive through them. I want to feel that again. I want my pages to feel like life. I want the reader to feel moved and touched and as if they just lived through the story.

Instead, I’m floating around in fiction land without an anchor, inspiration lit up like a beacon in the distance and the wind is pulling me in the opposite direction.

I’m planting my feet into the sand this year. If I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have a damned thing written. It’s so pathetic. A waste of all that time and effort for nothing just because I have issues with admitting when I need help. When I need a push in the right direction. All that stubbornness is coming back to bite me in the ass. If I died tomorrow all the words inside my head would die too and for me after the worlds I’ve shifted through and characters I’ve built up that would be a shame. I just needed a reminder of what I need to accomplish. Sometimes the reminders just come in the saddest way possible.

While I realize that this is a horribly personal blog for the day, (believe me, I even debated hiding this in a dark corner and pretending I never wrote it) I think a part of my promise to myself is to be more open. I’ve spent years closed down because it was the only way to manage how I really felt about how the world turns around me. The only thing that serves purpose to is drowning out the creativeness. Without emotional ties and connections there is no creativity in the world around me. So here’s to a new year and to a new goal and to me accomplishing something I’m more than capable of accomplishing.

What inspires you? What inspiration do you take from the world around you? Anything ever impacted your ability to write and you found yourself questioning everything you put onto paper? What helped you get past that?

Music Influence stuck on repeat:  Snuff- Slipknot- (Album) All Hope is Gone

Every writer has an internal Fluffy. Fluffy comes in all shapes and sizes. All different types of voices. Different names. But Fluffy is all the same. She sneaks. She seizes. She conquers. Fluffy is the Destroyer of Worlds- the world you’ve created inside your head desperate to get it on paper before she taints it with her black magic poison (AKA doubt, insecurity, forgetfulness).

I deal with Fluffy on a weekly basis. She grins, her black eyes sparkle with mischief. She crackles her knuckles and hunkers down over my fingers as I’m typing. She sings songs inside my head about how my plot has holes and my characters aren’t realistic. How my issues shouldn’t transfer into writing. How I neglect everyone by flipping open my laptop. Yet I can deal with Fluffy and her remarks. She’s a jealous little creature with black pixy wings on a gargoyle body.  I’d be bitter too.

Now, Sunshine Fluffernuckle is a different story. SF will cause me to put my writing aside for months at a time. SF knows no mental mercy from his tyrants. He sees and not only does he conquer it. He complete decimates it. He worms his way into every plot. He’s more sneaky than the snake Mr. Grinch. But he’s sneaky about it until he gets exactly where he needs to be and by then it’s too late. You lose your plot to his complaints. To his constant you’re-not-good-enough- to-write-this-plot mentality. Because when you hear it constantly, you start to believe it.

As the new year is underway, I’ve been working on ways to head off SF. A new year is a new beginning and while I’ve been stationary for a couple of years, I’m going to make my move this year. I’ve played a mental chess match with SF for far too long. He just hasn’t realized he’s about to be checkmated.

Now, can you put a description on your Fluffy and how does Fluffy disrupt your writing pattern?

Honestly, I could pretend like I wrote this blog last night and it’s the most fabulous thing your going to read all year, but it’s me. And I tell it how I see it and this numbskull doesn’t have internet at home yet (haven’t had time to call and set it up) and left my blog at home this morning therefore can’t load it to post at midnight. So this is from my personal blog which doesn’t get updated frequently but this blog served to remind me  to reflect on my choices and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. My writing will come to fruition this year. I have a gut feeling about this year.

*** December 2006 ***

I’ve never been a talkative person. When I was younger, talking to someone was about as painful to me as a root canal and it’s not much better now. I get all flustered and my face flushes pink. I start to get spoltchy and my brain turns to mush. It’s frustrating to feel that feeling of my throat swelling closed and I just have to nod, put my head down and walk away. I say this because I was watching my DH today while he was working and was amazed at his ability to just talk to anyone. He literally took someone just walking by and had a thirty minute conversation with a stranger. A comfortable conversation too, like they’d known each other for years. When the guy walked away from the DH, he smiled and waved and the DH turned to me and said, “I have a problem. It’s a disease.” Then he smiled and I turned into blubering mush like I do so often.

Which got me to wondering- Is the DH’s gift of gab much like my love for voicing myself through writing?

The DH and I are completely opposite of each other. It fascinating to me to think of all the things we don’t have in common and that we’re perfectly happy together. It annoys him that I spend so much time logged on the computer. At first I kept my writing hidden from him, worried that he would think me more of a nerd than he already knows I am; but then he caught me one night before I could shut down the computer when he came home from work. Then we had the writing conversation. “I’m only doing it for fun. I’m bored while you’re at work.” He shook his head and I’m sure didn’t think anything of it.

Only problem was, it wasn’t just for fun for me. Writing has turned into an obsession for me. In just a little over a year, I turned from a bookaholic to a writeraholic. I don’t imagine that anything will ever come from it, but there’s that tiny little fire in my heart that just keeps on living.

Is there anything that you keep secret, just so that you have something for yourself? Something that makes you happy to do? Like reading is my second favorite passion. I leave books everywhere so that at any given moment, I can pick up a book and read a few paragraphs. Was there a pivotal moment when you came out about your writing to a loved one, and you were so excited only to find out they weren’t? Does it or will it stop you from doing what you love?

We all have a beginning. As the year winds down, I can’t help but think of another year that has gone by. I blog with some of the finest wenches and pirates to ever sail the seven writing seas but even we had our beginning. While you may not have been with us since the beginning, we at the RWR have come to love every one of our followers. So, in case you’ve not ever seen our debut, here it is in fine form.

Everything We Know About Writin’ We Learned From Captain Jack Sparrow

Monday, October 1st, 2007

The crew members have pointed out perhaps we should give a bit of a brief statement about us and our ship. We are writing pirates on the ship, Romance Writer’s Revenge, which we all credit the naming of to Terrio, whom you’ll meet in a minute. Keep your britches on.

Our mission is to…well, be pirates. Okay, not like that. We’re different. We like to bathe. Not together. Get your minds out of the gutter.

We’ve banded together, rebels, who write because there is no greater freedom than that which can be found between the pages of… *tomato thrown at her by Boatswain Terrio* Hey! *glowering* We’re eating that later. Once we acquire a cook. Now mind yourself, or I’ll turn the Captain’s Daughter on you.

Please let me introduce Quartermaster Sin. *pointing to a leggy brunette who looks like she’d as soon kick your ass as look at you, dressed in black, all black* Nearly six-feet tall and enough to give the rest of us inferiority complexes if we thought about it too much. She writes like a hurricane, and this is without the bionic hand she wishes she could have.

*pointing to a shorter (who isn’t shorter than QM Sin?) auburn-haired pirate in blues and silvers, black knee boots looking particularly fetish-like* This is Boatswain Terrio, our chief petty officer (emphasis on petty) and here to boost our morale. *Terrio swishes cat-o-nine tails* Despite the accessories and pirate attire, Terrio writes contemporary romance without a single whip to be featured in it.

If you want whips, I suggest reading Sin’s stuff. I’d tell you what she writes, but on any given day, I doubt Sin could tell me. *grins*

Over here, *pointing to a young woman straddling a cannon, looking quite at home* is Powder Monkey Lisa. We’ve just acquired her to load the cannons–I hear she’s wonderful with big guns. She also writes contemporary romance, but I believe she prefers to call it “smut.” Poor gel, the only thing worth writing, really.

And I am Captain Hellion. I doubt any introductions are necessary.

Don your eye patch and brandish your sword, you’re about to learn to be a writer the pirate way.

1.)Establish your reputation. “But you have heard of me,” Jack says smugly, when Norrington comments that Jack’s the worst pirate he’s ever heard of. Network, network, network. The more people who know you in the business, the better chance you’ll have to show you mean to make writing your career. Jack established he was a pirate—and we all know he’s the best pirate there is. He said so. That being said….

2.)Believe in yourself. There isn’t anyone who believes more in Jack’s credentials as the world’s best pirate than Jack himself; and frankly, you, as a writer, need to do the same. Writing is a lonely business; and being left alone with your inner critic day in and day out can have you questioning your career path. Even when Jack is feeling a bit down, he knows deep down he is a great pirate—and you must do the same. Like Jack, perhaps a bit of rum will help. It’s certainly done a lot for my manuscript.

3.)Stop being a pirate…er…writer? Never! Jack didn’t have a ship, a crew, or even a bottle of rum; however, he was still a pirate. Think of yourself in similar terms: you’re a writer first. It’s not just a hobby; it’s not something to hide or do only when you’ve made everyone else happy. If you consider yourself as a writer first, people will also start to think of you that way—and it will be easier to carve out more time for writing because people will expect it.

4.)Have fun. Do you think Jack likes being a pirate? No, Jack loves being a pirate; he embraces it. He says, “Pirate.” So if people are staring at you oddly when you’re jotting down brilliant tidbits on napkins, laughing manically to yourself, and correcting the grammar on restaurant menus, just give them the Captain Jack look and say, ‘Writer.’”

5.)Be on the lookout for new treasure. Jack never failed to find bits of treasure lying about—usually unwatched—which he could immediately pocket. Pay attention to your surroundings. Life is absurd and full of characters. You’ll never know when you find the perfect real life person to portray your quirky Lord Herrington. (Disclaimer: while Captain Jack does abscond, most roguishly, with unprotected treasure, he does not steal copyrighted treasure—and neither should you.)

6.)Speak and deliver. Jack is an Ace at one-liners (“Savvy?”), and he’s memorable in practically everything he says. Memorable writing keeps readers running to the store for your next book—so be loud, be proud, and be your own voice, not anyone else’s…and you’ll be as memorable and beloved as Jack.

7.)Get into character. There would not have been a Pirates of the Caribbean without Captain Jack Sparrow. He made that movie; no doubt about it. Plot is great; plot tells the story, but characters sell books and keep readers wanting more. Create great characters and you’ll have a great book, even if your virgin secretary is having a secret baby.

8.)Get into trouble. If there’s anything Jack does well, it’s get into trouble. Then he spends an inordinate amount of time trying to get out of it, only making it worse. And we love him for it. Do the same to your characters. Where there’s trouble, there’s conflict; where there’s conflict, there’s story. Give your characters a ship, then blow holes in it.

9.)Seize the “Opportune Moment.” Jack knows how to create his own luck and seize opportunity. He doesn’t wait for people to bring him treasure; he takes it. Therefore, don’t keep your finished manuscripts lurking under the bed because you don’t think they’re polished enough for an editor’s eagle eye. Query, query, query. Rejection is a part of the business, even pirate business. Jack might get slapped now and again, but he still thinks he’s quite the catch.

10.)Find a dependable crew. Did Jack face nasty Barbossa alone? No. He took some equally rum-soaked pirates with him. You should do the same. Find like-minded, rum-soaked writers and sail the treacherous waters of the Slush Pile and Critic’s Hell. Every once in a while you’ll hit upon treasure—and in the meantime, you’ll have a lot of fun doing it!

11.)Be daft (like Jack). People are going to think you’re daft for wanting to write a book, and even dafter for going through the crap shoot of getting it published. There will be plot twists that will even have you thinking, “They’ll think I’m a lunatic. I can’t have an alien abduction at a Regency tea party!” But as Jack says, when his madness is brought into question, “Well thank goodness for that, ’cause if I wasn’t this would probably never work.” If you over think your ideas and don’t allow your “madness” room to romp in your manuscript, you’ll end up with a book that is overdone, trite, and not at all in your original voice.

12.)Savvy that “they’re more like guidelines anyway.” Learn the rules of writing–then break them. Put a twist on them and make them your own. Except for that rule about spelling and grammar–that’s one you shouldn’t break. Nothing more annoying to the Grammar from Hell Editor than a misspelled manuscript. But most everything else is fair game, Jack says.

Whatever your writing genre, find your strengths, strengthen your weaknesses and walk that plank of being a writer. If you take the chance and follow Captain Jack’s advice, you might end up Captain yourself.

What has the fair and witty Jack taught you about writing (or living)?

Pick your jaws up off the deck. I’m not going to rebel on Christmas. Following in the true path of Christmasness, I picked a wonderful Christmas blog to revisit. While we may have rewritten history with our spookily fantastical rendition of a Christmas Carol this year, Hellie brought us together for a wonderful Christmas Caroling event that is sure to warm even the coldest of hearts. And if it doesn’t, I expect you to lie because if you don’t, I’m going to follow you around singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs. And I’m loud. And sneaky. I will pop up when you least expect it.

I covered my face with my pillow. It was well past one in the morning and those wenches on the top deck had finally had their fill over singing hiccup versions of “Deck the Mizzenmast” and “Silver Cannonballs”. Now all was quiet as they passed out in a drunken state of Christmas bliss. It was of no wonder to me why the pirates of the RWR were never taken seriously as writers.

Because they never got any writing done!

Ridiculous!

I got up, sat at my desk and stared at the cursor blinking back at me from a blank document. It was bad enough that those wenches kept me awake with their caterwauling, but I was still suffering from a mild case of missing word muse. Would this day never cease to end?

I tapped my fingers over the keys hoping for inspiration yet nothing came to me. I closed the screen down on my laptop and pushed it away. I needed a short nap to rest my eyes before I tackled ripping down all the festive decorations while the wenches slept. I meant it when I told them earlier I didn’t want to be reminded it was Christmas. The day was memory enough.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a change. I dreamed everyone was quiet and concentrating, hunched over laptops and notebooks. No merrymaking or carousing or drunken lunacy. Just hard work and determination to get to the end. Peaceful dreams- I reached out for a blanket.

Except there was no blanket, only crumbled papers, an open marker that soaked into the palm of my hand and a laptop.

“Blast!” I muttered and let my head drop to the desk. The thunk echoed in the empty cabin and I groaned. Clearly a nap didn’t do me any good. When had anything good ever come to me?

Exactly.

I slowly straightened up in my chair, bones cracked and muscles screamed in agony. I stretched my arms over my head and noticed my window was wide open. The sliver of moonlight streamed onto the dark wood floor, the rustle of palm tree leaves lulled the rest of the pier to sleep. Everyone awaited a visit from Santa. But I knew he wasn’t coming. No such thing is Christmas cheer. The whole idea of Christmas was nothing but… ridiculous.

I stood up and hobbled over to my captain’s bed, both legs were asleep. I tossed and turned on the uncomfortable mattress. My mind whirled from my overactive imagination, images of a monster with three heads quoting lame sonnets and tittering nervously danced through my head.

No way was a Ghost coming to visit me tonight. What a bunch of crap.

I rolled over and punched my lumpy pillow back into shape. I couldn’t believe I was actually giving this any real thought. Ridiculous!

The hour ticked by. Then the next. I laid there in silence, waves lapped at the ship hull, seagulls bellowed in the distance. The moon was just a slice of light in the sky, stars twinkled faintly. It was dark. A perfect night for sleeping. Yet, sleep wouldn’t come to me.

I blame that blasted figment of my imagination earlier filling my head with thoughts of Ghosts.

Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick.

I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my face into my pillow. I should just get up. After all, sleep was just overrated. I needed to complete this first sex scene between my hero and heroine tonight so I could write in the big fight tomorrow to keep on my deadline. I thought about the scene in my head, figuring the position. Figuring the finesse, the moving of bodies…

Gunshots blasted in the distance.

One. Two. Three. Three in the morning I could believe. My eyes felt like sandpaper rubbing against cashmere.

“Damnit! Every night that flippin’ racket… A pirate ninja tart can’t concentrate with all that bloody noise!” Sin shouted from the Crow’s Nest. “Randy Andy, cut it out! No one cares what time it is!”

Four. Five. The sun would be up any minute.

“Shut your bleeping mouth you nagging wench!”

I heard growling and heavy swearing. Sin lost her temper- what a shocker. “I’m going to poison your rum you one armed worthless bag of seaweed!”

Six. Seven. Wait. Seven?

“Shut up the both of you!” Bo’Sun shouted. “I’m trying to get my beauty rest.”

Eight.  Nine. Okay this was just getting a little weird. Even for the ship.

“Eat it, Ter!” Sin yelled and something thumped onto the deck and hissed.

“Oh, hell,” Hal swore. “It’s the undead monkey!”

I could hear Sin laughing.

Chance shouted to the crew, “Someone get the baseball bat and rotten bananas!”

Chaos broke out and the monkey’s claws skittered along the deck as footsteps thundered around.

Ten. Eleven. I didn’t sleep Christmas away, did I? My luck wasn’t that good.

“Hold him! Hold him!” Marn shouted. “Holy Nikes! He’s trying to bite me! Help!”

“Don’t let him go!” Lisa screamed as nails scratched the top deck.

Twelve.

I let out a sigh of relief. I could deal with midnight. It would give me enough time to pass back out and sleep through the supposed haunting of the RWR in my honor.

One.

All the noise on the top deck died. Dread weighted me down into my bed. I waited in silence for the noise to resume but minutes ticked by and nothing happened.

I groaned. This was a dream. All a dream. In the morning, I would chalk this up to Chance’s special spiced rum cider.

I rolled over and came face to face with a floating black hoodie.

I blinked once. Twice and the hoodie floated closer. I wasn’t sure quite how I landed on the wood planked floor, but it shocked my system enough to get me standing.

“Who the hell are you?” I couldn’t see its face. Only the cloak smoldered as though it were on fire. Darkness filled the inside, and hovered at the edge of my bed. “And what the hell are you doing in my quarters!”

“Will you dare to come with me?” The voice was angelic, soft and hung suspended in the air as if waiting to be caressed. “I cannot wait all night, dear Captain. For I am the Ghost of Christmases Past and I have something for only you to see.”

I rubbed my eyes and focused on the voice coming from the hoodie. Crap. Emily Brontë was the Ghost of Christmases Past. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Thanks but no thanks.” I laid back down and willed the aberration away. Damn, Chance. Tomorrow, after I pulled a Grinch and threw away all the Christmas decorations, pitching the rum rations to the Kraken would be my next mission.

A feathery touch of fingertips brushed my forehead and I nearly wet myself when I slowly opened one eye and saw the cloak hovering above me. No hand in sight.

Goosebumps broke out over my body. I refused to be scared. Pirates do not get scared.

“Don’t touch me.”

I sat up and blew out a breath and the hoodie smacked against the ceiling in a burst of flames. I rolled off the bed and grabbed the hoodie around the neck. I slammed it to the floor boards and beat the flames with my pillow. The hoodie lay still at my feet, all signs of life gone. I stood over it, Capt’n Morgan style and breathed a sigh of relief. I had to say it felt pretty damn good to one up ole Ebenezer Scrooge.

I kicked the scorched hoodie in the corner and flopping back into the bed. At least one good thing came of the ghostly visits; peace of mind there would be no more. This just served to remind me I didn’t need a hero to save me. I could do it for myself.

I snuggled into my Capt’n Jack blanket and my eyelids drooped. Visions of Jack Sparrow in nothing but his boots danced in my head.

“Not so easy Captain,” a soulless voice caressed my ear. “The dead cannot die again.”

I flopped over on my back and glared at the hoodie hovering above me.

“Do I have to spell this out for you? I’m not interested in a smarmy walk down memory lane. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a pirate. I have no need for warm fuzzy memories.”

“It’s my job to awaken you to what you missed,” the ghost replied.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I rolled my eyes. “This is ridiculous!”

The cabin went black and the scent of coconut suntan oil permeated the room. A tranquil vision of ocean and sand appeared before me.

I glanced to my left, and the cloaked figure hovered at my side.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So enlighten me if you must.”

I saw the pirate girls of the RWR soaking up rays of sunshine, cabana boys flocked all around them. They were decked out in skimpy bikinis and holding different colored drinks and I sat away from them underneath an umbrella laptop situated in my lap waving off two really hot guys.

I shrugged. Who needed guys when you could write the perfect one yourself?

Chance looked up from her drink and elbowed the rest of the RWR pirates. Lisa took her straw out of her mouth and yelled over her shoulder, “Hellion! Come over here where the sun is hot and the men are hotter!”

“No,” Hellion mumbled. “I’m almost done with this paragraph and then I’ll be over there. Gimme five more minutes.”

“You always say that!” Marn whined.

“Get your rear over here!” Chance waved a couple more guys Hellion’s way, but they came back sulking.

“Alright, that’s it.” Sin went to her knees and brushed sand off her as she stood. “If she won’t come over here on her own will, then I’ll drag her skinny butt over here myself.”

“If you pirates would worry more about your writing and not so much about the cabana boys hanging all over you, you’d be finished with your manuscripts by now. Sin, you’re the worst of them all.” Hellion didn’t bother to look up from what she was typing, but I noticed the look on Sin’s face. Pissed off didn’t cover it.

Bo’Sun reached up for Sin’s arm and pulled her back down to the sand. “She didn’t mean it. Christmas time always gets to her.”

“She’s gonna think Christmas time is what is getting to her,” Sin hissed through her teeth.

I watched Hellion continue to write, ignoring the happiness and laughing and couldn’t say that I blamed the younger version of myself. Christmas was just another day. I waited for the day when everyone else would realize it too.

I looked to the Ghost of Christmas Past, “This is the best you can do? I’ve seen better on the Hallmark channel.”

“Don’t you feel bad that you hurt your friend’s feelings? That you didn’t share in Christmas with your the pirates you consider to be family?”

I looked at Sin and the Grinch in me softened a little before I snuffed it out.

“You can’t be mad if it’s the truth.” I picked up a seashell and chucked it back into the ocean. “Next memory and it better be good.”

The Ghost gave me a look and I crossed my arms over my chest. “Ebenezer was a punk.”

“Alright,” The robed arm reached out to me and wrapped around my torso tight. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Everything went black and faded into night. The smell of the sea salt was heavy in the air. I stood out in the cold watching people walk by as they poured down the sidewalks, linked arm and arm. Women dressed in their best wench dresses, lots of skin showing, hair bouncing with each step as their hips swayed in five inch come-fck-me-pumps. Men dressed respectably as a pirates can get, refraining from scratching themselves or tugging at the collar of their button up shirts their dates forced them to put on.

The streetlights were lit, wreaths and garland hung with care and tied with red velvet bows. The only holiday pirates got respectable for- Christmas.

Ridiculous, if you asked me.

I wrapped my arms around me, and rubbed my hands over my shirt sleeves to warm up. You could hear the racket a mile away. The laughter. The singing. And worst of all, the smell of happiness. I wrinkled my nose. Idiots. All of them. Didn’t they know the holidays were just regular days not paid merrymaking time to go out and squander what little coin they had?

“Now what are we doing?” I shot the Ghost a nasty look. “This is ridiculous!”

The Ghost of Christmas Past set its gaze upon me; the black hood rippled with the breeze. “Come with me.”

The Ghost turned away from me and floated away. It made its’ way over the sidewalk before hovering over the bricked road towards a house with every room lit up in decoration. My eyes followed the Ghost to the house in question and I stood frozen on the sidewalk.

I knew this house. It once had been my home.

A terrible feeling sank into the pit of my stomach. Oh God. The one memory I never wanted to revisit and I was here about to relive it.

My heart skipped a painful beat.

“I will not ask you again. Come forward so we can end our night.” The Ghost’s robed arm stretched out in my direction, an endless abyss of darkness met my eyes and I tore my eyes away from it and forced myself to step off the sidewalk. I held my breath as I stepped closer and closer to the front door.

We slipped inside with another couple, warmth of the fireplace raced over my skin. Firelight flickered against the walls from candles burning bright in the chandeliers hanging overhead and lights twinkled on the Christmas trees scattered about.

Sin’s laughter echoed out of the house and I watched her run past a group of masked guests with a male right on her heels as they ran into a room and slammed the door behind them. Bo’sun sat at the DJ booth and spun a mixture of Christmas music and pirate booty music, drink firmly planted in one hand as she moved to the beat. Chance ran behind the bar, tossing out drinks faster than a pirate should be able to move, Silent as Sins and Bo’Sun Burners, Glittery Hoohas were traveling the length of the bar in lightening speed. Marn, Lisa and Hal were up on the bar, dancing around in little elf outfits teasing the hell out of everyone as they twirled around tinseled poles. Santa and JP doled out little sample treats to guests, smiling and flirting and wrapping everyone around their pinky fingers.

Everyone was present except for me.

Gatherings were never my thing, I reasoned. I made a rude noise in the back of my throat and looked to the Ghost. It gestured for me to move forward and I dropped my eyes to the floor. My heart pounded a little harder with each breath I took. I licked my lips nervously.

He was here.

Even after all those years, I was painfully aware of him being in the room even if I couldn’t see him. When I walked into a room, my eyes automatically looked for him. I wouldn’t do it this time. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this again.

Ridiculous, I told myself. Memories never got your anywhere in the world.

I looked up and there he was, standing at the edge of the dance floor, empty drink in hand. His hair was messy from the wind, his button up shirt unbuttoned at the cuffs and rolled up, three buttons undone and opened without a care. He smiled over at Chance and lifted his empty drink cup and Chance nodded and started him another.

He looked my way and I couldn’t breathe. His dark eyes searched the crowd, mouth twitched into a frown. He looked to his watch and back around the room. I stared at him, unable to tear my eyes away from him. He was perfect, without being perfect. On track to be a successful agent, he just needed a big break.

I wanted so badly to do that for him.

I felt my face flood with color. It may have been a long time since I’d seen him, but never in a million years would I forget the way he made me feel inside.  I could conquer the world as long as he was standing by my side.

My nose burned and my eyes started to water and I looked to the Ghost of Christmas Past. “Well, let’s get on with it. I’ve got a chapter to write.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past looked to me; hood a vacant black hole and voice soft, “Learn the error of your ways, Hellion or your life will never change.”

A Brontë line if I ever heard one.

The Ghost gestured beyond the crowd and I found the younger version of myself easy among the crowd. My hair was a wild mess softly waved and flowing loose over my shoulders. Even though I’d spent the day in the office working on my first manuscript I’d taken the time to run upstairs and slip on my Santa Baby outfit with a short red velvet dress with the white pom-pom bracelets and black come-fck-me heels.

I smiled sadly to myself. The younger version of me looked distracted as she made her way through the crowd. She chewed the tip of her fingernail. Tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed at what was being said but with a distant look in her eye.

It wasn’t hard to recall what I was distracted by. It was the end of my first manuscript and I was trying to work out the Happily Ever After between my hero and heroine. For weeks, it eluded me. Christmas was my deadline and I’d tried to get out of the Christmas party but everyone looked forward to the distraction for weeks.

I couldn’t take it away from them.

Ridiculous, I reminded myself. You should’ve. You would’ve saved yourself a heck of a lot of heartache.

My younger self looked for him in the crowd. He found her and smiled in her direction with a sparkle in his eye as if she lit up his entire world with one look.

I had been such a fool.

He moved towards her, the crowd parted and the women sighed as he came up beside her.

He smiled at everyone and made pleasantries. She grinned up at him as if he hung the moon and stars and nothing else mattered in the world.

I felt sick. I was going to be sick.

He leaned in close to her, his lips brushed against her ear and she melted into him. He took her hand and led her out to the dance floor.

I put my hand to my ear and found it difficult to breathe. He asked me to dance so sweetly. I remember how he felt against me. How his words affected me. Every time my heart beat in my chest it broke a little more.

She smiled and shook her head. I told him I only had time for one dance.

He grinned and pulled her out to the dance floor. They moved together, made for one another. If only I’d realized that then and not taken the time we had together for granted.

The music wound down and she turned to go but he held onto her hand. He brushed the backs of his knuckles across her check and swept the hair away from her eyes. I read his lips, heard his voice as though he were speaking to me. He asked her to stay until after one. He had something very important to ask her when the clocks chimed one.

She stared at him, her lips parted, red stained her cheeks. She dropped her eyes to his chest and put her hand over his heart. I saw her lips move. I saw the way the light died in his eyes.

I told him to meet me in my room at dawn and we’d celebrate Christmas the right way.

I wanted to interfere. I wanted to shake her and say, “That wasn’t what he was talking about!”

I later found out he was going to ask me to be his pirate and sail away to the seven seas while we conquered the writing world together.

Fate was so cruel.

I looked away from them and sniffed. Ridiculous. “I’ve had enough and I want to go back to the ship.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past looked upon me again, and I felt a chill to my very marrow as the consequences of my actions settled onto me. “Oh no, Hellion, you’ve yet to see the best part.”

I swallowed hard as I watched him watch her walk away from him. All I wanted to do was run to him and throw myself in his arms and apologize for how dumb I’d been. “No.” I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can do this and a lot more.”

She never looked back. She never turned to ran back to his arms. And as if our love were a candle to be snuffed out, I saw it die right there.

“No.”

“You’re going to miss it.”

I looked up as he pulled the ring out. The firelight from the fireplace flickered over the stone and played against his features. I tried to not cry but felt tears slide down my cheeks one right after another.  ”He never married.”

“You broke his heart.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past stretched its robed arm out towards me and I slipped from its grasp.

“He broke mine!” I spat as I looked towards the office door that slowly closed. I wanted to break it down and drag the younger version of myself out by her hair. “I waited for him!”

“Maybe you don’t understand, dearest Hellion, that he waited for you to return to him but you never did.”

“If only he could’ve given me another day.”

The robed figure of Christmas Past wrapped around me as it whispered, “He would’ve given you a lifetime of time but you walked away.”

The truth hit me like a Mack truck. All these years I spent blaming him were wasted in one short second. I left him.

The room faded away and I closed my eyes. The smell of wood smoke and cedar wrapped around me and as I opened my eyes firelight greeted me. The room was tastefully decorated, heavily masculine and warm neutral colors. But dead of any emotion.

I knew where I was without asking.

The Ghost of Christmases Past was no where in sight. The room was empty save me and him. I could hear Christmas music playing on a radio somewhere in this place, but there was no sign of Christmas in this room. No tree. No lights. No stockings. Or pictures of family. The only personal item in the room was a ring box sitting on the fireplace mantle.

My knees trembled as I stepped closer to his chair. He sat with his forearms balanced on his thighs, head dropped to his chest. The glass in his hand was half full of amber liquid. The firelight played on his face, danced off the cut crystal of the glass. I wanted to touch him. To run my fingers through his hair, brush my lips against his 5 o’clock shadowed cheek.

But I couldn’t do those things. He wasn’t mine.

I sank to my knees in front of the chair and watched him in silence. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying and reached out. My hand rested on his wrist, but he didn’t move. I memorized every line of his face. The tilt of his lips into a fine line. I noticed the sad look in his eyes as he stared past me into the fire.

“I’m so…,” I choked on the last word. I couldn’t breathe as I dropped my head in defeat and covered my face with my hands. “I didn’t mean for it to be this way. You have to believe me.”

The fire cracked and his phone rang and I froze as I listened to it click over to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s me again. Mother wanted to know if you were coming over for Christmas.” In the background was laughing adults and screaming kids. “Please. Just this once come home for Christmas. You don’t have to spend it alone.”

There was a pause and I looked at him, horribly saddened and desperate to hold him.

I heard a sigh on the other end of the voice mail. “Okay, I’ll call later. Love you brother and Merry Christmas.”

“I’d do anything to make this right.” I reached up to his face; his eyes were on the ring. “Anything.”

He looked at me and my heart skipped a beat, but the room started to fade and I struggled to hold onto him. “No. Don’t do this!”

The air around me started to cool and I pressed myself closer to him as I whispered against his neck, “Don’t take him from me.”

I closed my eyes and held onto his memory only to wake up staring at the walls of my cabin. If only I hadn’t burned the house to the ground the next day and set everyone permanently to the ship. Things could’ve been different.

But time will never tell a story not written and ours never had a chance.

Who’s played your favorite version of the Ghost of Christmases Past? Who would make a great Ghost to make you change your ways?