Saturday, August 27, 2016

Fear and the sucker punch



My Dad never taught me to face my fears. He taught me to beat them to the punch. Get in front of them. Don't let them take an inch because then they'll take 10,000 miles. 
And he wasn't kidding. 
When I turned 13, he drove me four hours across the state to the biggest church youth event happening that weekend and dropped me off in a massive field with hundreds of total strangers playing volleyball. 
His parting words: "Go make friends."
Years later, I hydroplaned and wrecked my first car. When Dad got home, he told me to get in his car.
"If it's alright with you, Dad, I'd rather not ride in a vehicle anymore today."
His response: "Nope. We're not going to start that. Get in. We're going out for hamburgers."
And so on and so forth.
So, what do you do when the last time you were at the gym your vehicle was vandalized and your identity stolen?
For one, you never leave anything of value in your vehicle again.
For two, you go buy a new workout outfit and go back to the freaking gym. 




Beating fear to the punch is a sweaty business.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Day Two in the Attack of the Gremlins



My garage carpet flooded today from a mysterious leak that persists in its mystery. And so the water continues being cut off and my landlord continues cutting into walls.

 Best of luck to all of us. 

 Bad days often come in pairs. Or threes. Also quads. Or any number of their choosing. The best you can do is laugh, if possible. Cry, if necessary. Chant "oh no, oh no, oh please no," which is my personal favorite. Then keep moving forward.

 These aren't my favorite kind of days, but they have their purpose. It's a great reminder that our strength easy dissipates, but God's does not. If we truly believe that, then we can confidently face tomorrow because, let's be real here, we have no idea what the Gremlins have planned for Day Three.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Dear criminal class of miscreants...



... who broke into my Jeep and stole my purse this morning,
You targeted me for victimization, but, alas, you have failed. I’m just not in the mood. I’m feeling waspy today. Never target me when I’m feeling waspy.
Taking my purse is inconvenient. But now you’ve given me a reason to buy a new one. Without guilt.
Amateur.
You didn’t think this through. You took my favorite Burt’s Bees lip gloss, but the joke is on you. I was ready to switch to a new shade.
You just can’t win for losing.

As for breaking my window, you chose the wrong curly-headed chick. My hair always looks windblown anyway. Another epic fail!
You broke into my vehicle while I was at the gym. While you were being recorded on security tapes racking up charges at Lowes, Walmart, Target, and Walgreens, I was building muscle. Now you’re a wanted criminal and I have the core strength to kick your arse.
Who made the better decision today, hmm?

And then, the worst mistake of all, you took my purse but left behind a signed copy of my first book, Not Another Superhero. Have you any idea how valuable that will eventually be? You’re only playing the short game here.
Plus, I’ve been praying for you since the moment I saw your handy work. Do you know what that means? Coals. Heaps of them on your pitiful head. If you get singed by falling brimstone, you only have yourself to blame.
Lastly, I’d like to leave you with a bit of advice.
First, your smash and grab technique needs work. Eventually, you’re going to develop tennis elbow.
Second, never mess with a writer. We’ll spend years hunting you down simply for the fodder.
Sincerely,
Your Coming Tribulation

Friday, August 19, 2016

It's funny the things you miss



There was never a clean scrap of paper in the house. Not the front of paper. Not the back of paper. Not the inside of envelopes. Often, not even the toilet paper.

To my brother, the world was a canvas. And if he couldn't find a canvas, well...your journal will do.




That was life growing up with an artist. They must create. He was a doodling furnace that consumed every writeable surface in the house. Have you ever seen an alien battle depicted on an empty paper towel holder?

I have.

A few of them.

Space travel is a bloody business.




I've always admired his talent. More than admired. Coveted. I do well to print my name legibly. He could recreate the minute details of a Boeing 747 within six minutes or less of it flying overhead. Being in the same house with talent like that makes everything you do look like...well...child's play.

Because it is.




Mostly, however, what drove me crazy was never having a piece of paper to myself. As a writer pre-personal computer age, this was like dropping a swimmer in the desert and telling them to practice their laps.

"Mom! He drew all over my notebook again!"

My parents should have bought paper by the bale and ink by the bucket.




Even my homework got in on the action. My assignments were often spruced up with bold but odd doodles in the corner, on the cover, on the back, inside the notepad. You name it. Those doodles were sneaky creatures. They could wiggle into nearly any open space.

Frequently, my teachers would inform me doodling was not allowed in math. Or science. On my English papers or along the spine of my social studies homework. When they'd ask me to explain it, I'd just shrug.

"I left my notebook unguarded last night and Brendon found it."




As a kid, you have certain fantasies of what life will be like as an adult. You dream of all the dessert you'll eat. The late nights where you skip sleep. The freedom to do anything. And the endless supply of paper and pencils always available.

Okay, that last one might have only been me.




My brother and I haven't shared bathrooms, dinner tables, backseats, or notepads for nearly 20 years now. Recently, however, I was combing through my supply of clean notebooks and found a remnant left over. There, as if conjured straight out of a childhood memory, was a notebook with scribbles all over it.

I'm guessing he left it at my place at some point during the last two decades. I honestly hope I haven't kept notebooks around from high school. If so, it's time to sit myself down and have a chat about hoarding.




The funny or odd or ironic thing about that notepad is that I'm never going to let it go. I'll trash all the empty ones first. And, even then, good luck getting this sucker out of my hands. I have an intense grip.

After all those years of wanting to dump his head in a vat of black ink and watch bubbles float to the top, I missed those doodles. Really missed them.

Even though I was often frustrated beyond a healthy blood pressure level, I still had to admire the talent. And the journey. On every page there was a character waiting. Or a scene. Or an impression that left me realizing some creative minds think in more dimensions than the rest of us.

Now, as an adult, I want the doodles back. But my brother has far better things to do.




Next month, he and his wife will welcome their first son. He's already an active critter, my sister-in-law tells me. I'm not a bit surprised. If I had to guess, he's running out of wall space in there to draw on.

Or maybe he'll be more like me. The boring, reading one.

But I rather hope not. I hope, like his father, he is a fount of endless ideas. I hope he dreams of alien battles and draws them everywhere. I hope his curiosity gets him into trouble. And adventure. I hope he recreates creatures from his head into the corner of every piece of Botany homework his older sisters turn-in. And I hope they have to explain it to their teachers. Over and over again.

I hope he's alive with imagination. And I hope, when I leave my notepad lying around, he draws all over it.



Monday, August 1, 2016

The must-have piece for this summer's wardrobe.



Books compliment every outfit. You can't even say that about scarves. Get a copy of Not Another Superhero, your universal accessory, today at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

A Day of Book Research

The sequel to Not Another Superhero is currently underway. Stay tuned!

Until then, here's a glimpse into a day of researching a particular scene. How does a salvage yard fit into the mystery of Samantha Addison's life? Great question. Let me ask her and I'll get back to you.










A photo posted by @taralynnthompson on

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

It's a truth universally known.



Join all the action...and sarcasm...the sarcastic action?... Join Samantha in Not Another Superhero by ordering your copy today. Every order comes with a complimentary stack of wooden crates. (It doesn't, actually. That'd be a shipping nightmare.) Place your order today at Amazon or Barnes&Noble and you could be pulling out splinters by the weekend.