I Have No Klout.

This really perturbs me. Or what really perturbs me, it that I let this perturb me.  For those of you who are “techtarded” (official term stolen from Ara Burklund), like I am, you probably have not heard of Klout.com. (Or recently you’ve heard of it.)  I officially discovered this from Ara’s blog this morning.  The website sounded vaguely familiar but I have never checked it out.

Apparently, Klout measures your social influence.  It takes all the social media networks you are associated with and rates your “Klout” on various levels.  It gives you an overall score, labels you as an “influencer” or a “conversationalist,” indicates what topics you are an authority on, and various other rankings.

The competitor in me needed to see how I rated among my peers. I signed in and added all my social networks and found out…I have no Klout.  I HAVE NO KLOUT!

I ranked a 31 but I am only a conversationalist, with no topics to be an authority on.  Klout has slapped me in the face. Those who barely know me, (via Twitter, FB or Blogger) know I breathe music and writing.  I mean, music and books ARE my life. To have Klout tell me those don’t even register on their scale, well, that’s like telling me I am nothing.  Delete delete delete.  Sure, I could improve my “Klout” rankings if I worked really hard…LIKE I NEED SOMEONE ELSE RIDING MY ASS ABOUT BEING MORE, BETTER, GREATER!  I do a fine job of that on my own. 

After I gave Klout.com the proverbial middle finger, I got mad at myself. 

I’ve never been a conformist or a follower. I try to be sometimes, but it just doesn’t look well on me.  I was never Miss Popular in school.  I don’t have a huge blog or twitter following.  The comments and page views on my blog are minimal.  My friends list on FB is not that big.  And for some reason, in the back of my mind, I let this define me.

This is why I am perturbed at myself.  Shame on me.  I am an intelligent and affable person.  My social network status does not define me.  Even in real life, I have a handful of dear friends and everyone else I consider acquaintances.  I have always been of the belief that quality supersedes quantity.  So why do I care or let this affect me? Maybe it’s my 16 year-old self still searching for a title.  Maybe it’s my competitive side peeking out.  Or maybe it’s just human nature to want to be accepted and matter.  Who the heck knows.  In these moments of social depravity, I remind myself what matters is usually within arm’s reach: my children, husband, and my health.  Everything else, gravy.

So how about you, do you give a Klout what your Klout score is? 

(They can’t even spell the word right and I’m going to listen to them?  Geesh.)

When the Universe Speaks...You Listen

I’m sure we could all find signs in the universe to point to the things we want.  But sometimes the universe seems to speak a little louder.

Yesterday I got a phone call from my husband.  He called to let me know that he’d been rear-ended.  He was unharmed.  His precious truck showed no visible damage.  Her car though, didn’t fair well against his big GMC bumper.  The young woman was very apologetic and shaken up over the ordeal.  My husband made a joke about how this could be a great way to pick up people if you were single.  (I rolled my eyes.) They exchanged information.  She apologized again.  As they parted she said, almost half jokingly, “Well, if you ever have a need for a literary agent.” O_o

Cue the dropped jaw.

Um, yeah.  I was floored by this, too.

He told her, well, actually my wife is an aspiring writer. 

After he told me what happened, the first words out of my mouth were, “Oh my god, what was her name?  What agency is she with?  You didn’t offend her, did you, honey?” 

He laughed.

Of course, my mind went down the same path as you guys.  Wouldn’t that be an awesome “How I Got My Agent” story.  But the bigger message came in loud and clear.  It was like the universe whispered in my ear You’re ready.  As I wrap up the last of the editing for my book, I hope to be querying next month.  There are a lot of times as a writer I’m filled with self doubt.  Lately, none of that.  I am ready.  I’ve been ready.  I know I’m ready to take this writing thing to the next level.  And the universe knows it too.

As for the agent, will I be querying her?  Wouldn’t that be a great “personal connection” to add in my query letter.  I told myself, unless she is already on my list, I will not query her until after I’ve queried the other agents.  I want someone to give me a chance because they love my work, and not because they feel obligated for rear-ending my hubby.  Silly, I know, but I need my writing to be accepted on merit.  I need the validation.

Unfortunately, there will never be this cute tale of “How I Got My Agent in a Fender Bender.”  I looked her up, and her agency represents literary fiction, not YA.

Disappointed?  No. What the universe told me was more powerful.  It confirmed I am in the place I should be and I’m heading in the right direction.  For me, the situation represented a giant flashing arrow, lighting my path.

Sunday Downloads - Glad You Came

And this is where I digress.  And probably loose my audience (of one) from my Sunday Downloads.

I first want to apologize for subjecting you to...what I'm about to subject you too. When I heard the song, I just thought, "This is good booty shaking music." Downloaded it. Loved it. Then looked up the band on internet only to find...wait for it....they are a boy band from the UK. A BOY BAND FOR GOD SAKES!

Um, yeah.

I know.

I'm inflicting all kinds of pain on myself for the omission.  And for the gaul to subject you kind followers to this.

I am SO sorry.

But hey, you will want to shake your booty, for sure.  And you know me and lyrics.  My favorite line is "I decided you look well on me."  Imagine boy man of holy hotness, and you, draped on him.  And his delicious abs.

Here goes "Glad You Came" by The Wanted



Lyrics:

The sun goes down

The stars come out

And all that counts

Is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I'm glad you came

You cast a spell on me, spell on me

You hit me like the sky fell on me, fell on me

And I decided you look well on me, well on me

So let's go somewhere no-one else can see, you and me

Turn the lights out now

Now I'll take you by the hand

Hand you another drink

Drink it if you can

Can you spend a little time,

Time is slipping away from us so stay,

Stay with me I can make,

Make you glad you came

The sun goes down

The stars come out

And all that counts

Is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I'm glad you came

I'm glad you came

You cast a spell on me, spell on me

You hit me like the sky fell on me, fell on me

And I decided you look well on me, well on me

So let's go somewhere no-one else can see, you and me

Turn the lights out now

Now I'll take you by the hand

Hand you another drink

Drink it if you can

Can you spend a little time,

Time is slipping away from us so stay,

Stay with me I can make,

Make you glad you came

The sun goes down

The stars come out

And all that counts

Is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I'm glad you came

I'm glad you came

I'm glad you came

So glad you came

I'm glad you came

I'm glad you came

The sun goes down

The stars come out

And all that counts

Is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I'm glad you came

I'm glad you came

Don't Be Shocked When...

Don’t be shocked when…

You publicly tweet and a random person jumps into your conversation. (Even I get a little thrown off by this.)

Don’t be shocked when…

You blog about your life, your family, your trials and tribulations and a follower makes a personal connection with you and treats you like a friend, even though they have never met you. (When I get over the oddity of it, I'm flattered.)

Don’t be shocked when…

You publicly bash the industry and find all the doors to publication have slammed shut in your face. (Really?  Really.)

Don’t be shocked when…

You rip apart an author’s book in a public review and then later, they decline (and their close author friends) your solicitation to help you market your book. (Really.  Well known artists have blogged about this.  Negative criticism leaves a scar.)

Don’t be shocked when…

Your MS is continually rejected but all your non-writer friends (i.e. your husband, best friend, neighbor’s niece) have all raved at your brilliance. (Would you have a florist repair your car?)

Don’t be shocked when…

Your critique partner informs you that your first draft is CRAP.

Don’t be shocked when…

You realize your critique partner is right.

Don’t be shocked when…

You shelf your first book and know it will NEVER be published. (Deny it for as long as you need to.  I did. Then let it go and go write that best seller.)

Don’t be shocked when…

Everyone else around is rising in their career while you are actively doing nothing to grow yours.

Don’t be shocked when…

You eat like crap, never exercise and are no longer tone and athletic. (Okay, that was not about writing but I had someone complain to me about how unfair it was we were the same weight yet I am half her size.  Muscle is more dense than fat.)

Don’t be shocked when…

People do all of the above and treat their opinions as fact.  Some people live blissfully in their closed minded worlds.  It doesn’t mean we all have too.  Educate yourself, and you’ll expand your world. 

In the words of Seth Meyers; Really?
Some of the posts, comments and tweets people publicly rant about shock me.  This list reminds me not to be shocked.

My Workspace

Months and months back writers posted on their blog pictures of their workspace.  At the time, I didn't have a particular space.  My workspace was wherever I could sit with my laptop.  On the couch.  In the bed.  At the kitchen table.  I got plenty of work done being a nomad writer but I wanted a space of my own.  A space I could call...my office. Calling it an office and going "to work" every day has made my writing career more tangible? Realistic?  Plausible?

Well, I've carved out my own little space in the third car garage and here it is:

 Like how I've covertly stashed the "junk" behind the curtain wall to your left.  Ugh.

But my chair is really pretty:

I have a reading chair too:

With a little spot for Sookie to curl up.

Also have a workstation, for crafting stuff.  I hate the word "crafting."  It either says "Hi, I'm old." or reminds me of the kitsch crap you see at street fairs.

Here is my view from my desk into my courtyard.

Sookie likes to spend her time under my desk...in front of the space heater. 

(Did you  notice her in the first picture?)

It's California for god sakes.  Dog would never survive in less than 40 degrees.

So that's my space. Where all the magic happens.  Not like, the "magic" magic, but magic of the digital pen. I wish I have a fancy camera and could make the shots look like magazine photo spreads.  But alas, you must settle for my digital cannon.

Sunday Downloads - Rootless Tree

Damien Rice is...well, I'm not sure how to describe him.  He's earthy, passionate, artistic, intense, and sometimes just plain weird.  And I love him.  Quite a few years back (2003) he came out with his album O.  I was listening to commercial music at the time and didn't quite...appreciate his style.  (Apparently I'm quite fond of quite.)  Last year, I discovered 9 Crimes off his 2006 album 9.  I fell hard for this song.  The video is where I form my weird opinion but I do see the art in his video but man, it's creepy.  (See here.)

I didn't download any of the other songs because sometimes I love love love his music and the lyrics and other times I'm just not feeling it.  Well this next song I want to introduce to you, I feel too much.  Or felt, because my 16yo inner self relates.

Have you ever been in a one sided relationship?  Where you were so in love and infatuated with someone but they didn't reciprocate back?
You realized it.  So did he.
Fought about it.
And by god, you tried to break up with him. You did.
But then a few days later, he'd call.  Flirt at that party with you.  Stop by after school.  The next thing you knew, you were sucked back in.  Believing this time he really does love you. He really will try.
But he doesn't love you.
You know it.
He just doesn't want to be lonely.
And you are really good for his ego.

And you LET him do this to you...again.

For every person this has happened to, there is a breaking point.  The point were you can't do it anymore.  And it weighs on you, like a Rootless Tree.  You don't have the strength to leave, so you beg the person to let you go.

***WARNING: Explicit Language***

Lyrics Rootless Tree by Damien Rice:

what i want from you

is empty your head

they say be true,

don't stain your bed

we do what we need to be free

and it leans on me

like a rootless tree 

what i want from us

is empty our minds

we fake a fuss

and fracture the times

we go blind

when we've needed to see

and this leans on me

like a rootless... 

so fuck you

and all we've been through

i said leave it

it's nothing to you

and if you hate me

then hate me so good that you can let me out

let me out of this hell when you're around 

what i want from this

is learn to let go

no not of you

of all that's been told

killers reinvent and believe

and this leans on me

like a rootless... 

so fuck you

and all we've been through

i said leave it

it's nothing to you

and if you hate me

then hate me so good that you can let me out

let me out of this hell when you're around

let me out...

and fuck you, fuck you, i love you

and all we've been through

i said leave it

it's nothing to you

and if you hate me

then hate me so good that you can let me out

let me out...

it's hell when you're around

The Night the Squirrel Attacked

It’s kind of like when the “Nights Went Out in Georgia” but a lot worse.  After reading my blog buddy, Anne Riley’s blog, another commenter said something that brought back a very traumatizing event.  (Read that blog here.)  For those of you who might laugh or poke fun or joke at my expense…this is a serious public service announcement.

***DO NOT LET SQUIRRELS LIVE IN YOUR ATTIC!***

I know what you are thinking, “Dana, how can you make those sweet innocent souls homeless when your blog is titled as such?”  Well I can say, “You’ve never walked a mile in my squirrel attacked shoes or you’d evict those beasts too.” (Evict read “poison and kill.”  Again, mile in my shoes, mile in my shoes.)

Look at the beast:

Its malice claws, like deadly eagle talons.   That hideous tail, like an Amazon python, ready to choke its prey.  Or how about those beady eyes, ready to suck the living soul right out of you!

Evil I say.  Evil. Hear my story and you will agree. 

When I was in high school, Dec. 3, 1989, my senior year (note that I have the date BURNED in my skull…FOREVER) I was attacked by a squirrel one night.   Twice.  Those cute little baby squirrels in the attic ATTACKED ME! The little critter chewed a hole in my closet sheetrock and attacked me in my very bedroom. 

I was sleeping and heard their ratty claws scraping at the walls.  Rats with tails.  I thought they were scraping from the inside, but when I called out to fear them into scattering, the beast was laying  on my arm tucked behind my head.  I threw the foul creature with my elbow across the room.  It thudded against the wall and scampered into my closet.  I shrieked a cry so loud, my parents came downstairs to aide me.  I exclaimed the murderous attempt and begged for safekeeping in their bed.  My parents refused to let their 16yo daughter sleep in the bed with them because of “bad dreams,” so I slept in the guest room just outside their room upstairs.

It took an hour maybe two before my tense body could succumb to sleep again.  That’s when I heard the faint skittering of feet in the closet behind me.  I writ it off to my vivid imagination.  Then a distinct depression sunk the covering on my bed.  The quick scampering of tiny feet across the covers and SCREACH!  the beast landed on my legs.  My bloody murder screaming (which my mother swore to this day she actually thought someone was killing me) called my parents to me.  They saw the incubus SCAMPERING ACROSS THE GRASSCLOTH WALLS! Mother screamed and slammed the bedroom door, isolating me, and my gallant step father, in the room with the creature.  One broomstick later, the tiny invader had met its end and we were free from the Squirrel Queen’s Tyranny.  (And a crapload of rat poison in the attic.)  


Thus I must add, that was the one and only night I ever slept with my parents.

From that night, until the 20^th of April, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety, I slept with ALL my lights on, the TV on and one towel stuffed under my bedroom door, another towel under my closet door.  I kid you not.  So when you read my blogs and you think, “That girl ain’t right.”  Now you will know why I'm a little "squirrelly."