"The Question" Has Changed

The great question used to be "To be or not to be."

Now, it's "To blog or not to blog."

What is that saying: All you have to do in life is pay taxes and die? Well, now it's all you have to is blog, pay taxes and die.

I used to think "I want to blog this morning"; now I think "I have to blog this morning." It's gone from what I like to do in my spare time to another thing added to the list. Yesterday, I sat down grumbling about my new "have to" and started a post about how I'm going to be an aunt for the first time. I typed away about the pressure of being an aunt and the importance of that role in a satirical, yet light-hearted way.

Then I realized that most of the people who read my blog probably don't give a shit that my sister is having a baby.

Those who follow my blog are my *clearing throat* audience.

If I don't produce for my audience, I'll lose them. Therefore, I have to blog. If I lose my audience, will I stop writing? Do I have an audience so that I can write or do I write so I can have an audience?

Enter Sellout.

Enter Ego.

Enter Creative Frustration.

I started blogging as an avenue of self promotion that will (hopefully) help me snag an agent. Once I have an agent, he or she can do all the damn promoting.

(I know; in my dreams.)

My point is that the blog started as something I had to do. As I posted more and more, and my audience grew and grew, and --god help me--I produced quality a few quality pieces that might never have been born without the blog, I found that I wanted to blog. It wasn't taking away from my creative energy; it was pushing the boundaries of skills. Making me more versatile; more deft in my craft. I had never written flash fiction before blogging; my musings on language actually got put into language.

But, the pendulum has swung. It's been two weeks since my last post and I feel pressured. Updating the blog jumped back onto my list of things I have to do.

So I sit down, planning on blogging about my inability to blog (might as well capitalize on my ego causing me to sellout resulting in creative frustration).

Enter Instant Message: the greatest time-suck, procrastination aid (along with its siblings texting and Facebook) every invented.

Chicago, online friend that I stumbled across as while I have been traversing the online dating and blogosphere scene, is checking in on my evening. And I am more than willing to provide the details of my very boring Saturday night.

Before I know it, I am co-writing vampire horror erotica. Chicago has been nudging me to compose his ideas for erotic horror fiction, but I've resisted. I feel as if I have enough of my own projects to not get wrapped up in someone else's. I have written vampire fiction; I occasionally write erotica; I frequently write horror, but I had no plans on combining them.

As it turns out, I ended up with the draft of what could be a good piece. And I was just pounding it out. In my effort to avoid my creative frustration, to avoid updating the blog, I managed to sink my teeth into a new vein of my creativity. (This is called hitting you over the head with metaphor or in other words, bad writing.)

So there you have it: my blog update about how in avoiding updating the blog, I wrote a new piece which I will not be including in my post.

Is there a blog award for "worst post ever"?

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

I promised myself that I would not use this site as a teenager-bashing forum. But, I just can't resist putting this up.  It just happened in one of my senior English classes.

Currently, we are reading Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger; we are seven chapters into it. This is one of my favorite unit to teach: I read it aloud to the students with plenty of dramatic flair, I am really good at connecting the protagonist's experience to theirs (and with teens, if you make it about them, they are in), and using it as a tool to build their skills of analysis.

This is the cover of their copies.

They've taken a couple of quizzes, we've had discussions, and they have had a copy checked out to them.  At this moment, the students are working on completing some analysis questions for those chapters we've read. I always preface these questions with the statement, "These are not recall questions. This story is not that hard to follow. These questions require you to think of the significance of what's happening in Holden's life."

Students nod, either to acknowledge an appreciation for their budding intelligence or because they just want me to shut up so they can figure out where they are going to get wasted this weekend.

I go to my desk to input attendance and to email my sister. Oh, and to check in on the blog.

I see the blur of a white T-shirt in my peripheral as a student approaches me.  "Uh, Ms. Vance, who is Salinger."

Without shifted my eyes from the computer screen, I throw out the side of my mouth, "The author of the book."

A few minutes later, an second student asks me the same question. Much to my chagrin, I realize that students are getting stuck on question #3: "Compare and contrast Ackley and Stradlater [characters in the novel]. Why do you think Salinger has Holden interact with them?"  To try to waylay further irritation, shuffled over to my podium so that I am at the center of attention and announced to the class: "J.D. Salinger is the author of the book."

A chorus of "Ohhhhhhh"s fills the room. I smile, give them a curt nod, and return to my computer.

One young lady, who is very pretty and therefore very popular and therefore, therefore hasn't seen the need to develop her brain says, "Oh my God, this is a biography?"

I peer from around my computer screen, "No, honey. Make-believe stories are written by humans too."

She blinks at me, and then to save face, flicks her hair back. I think two boys who sit across the room from her swoon. Fluttering her beautiful green eyes to the ceiling, she says knowingly, "Oh, so then he's one of the characters. But, which chapter was he in?"

Holy shit.  And it's only 2nd period. I have two more periods of seniors ahead of me.

For 3rd period, I decide to nip this in the bud. As soon as I pass out the questions, I tell the class to look at question #3 and then say, "Salinger is the author of the book. I just wanted to make sure you all knew that before ten of you ask me and I flip out because several people last period asked me who he was."

This time, I get a chorus of, "Who doesn't know that? What dumb-asses [I think the exact word they use is  'fuck-tards' but I find that really offensive and dumb-ass means the same thing]," but then I notice a few of their classmates studying the cover of Catcher, as their shoulders roll forward, they hunker down a bit, and then glance up nervously to see if anyone else noticed that they were one of those "dumb-asses."

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

The only good thing about starting the new school year is that my supply of funny teenage anecdotes will be replenished.

This is my fifteenth year of teaching, so those first few days of school have lost their novelty. I no longer spend days in the summer decorating the classroom (the posters from last year are just fine); I sleep soundly the night before; and I am not pulsing with excited, nervous energy as fresh new tanned faces come beaming into my room. It's kind of like birthdays after 30: whatever.

But I did learn a few things during this first week of school.

I learned that I am completely desensitized to teenage shenanigans. As an ice-breaker exercise, I have each student introduce themselves by paring an adjective that starts with the same letter as their first name with it and then explain how that word reflects an aspect of their personality. It introduces alliteration, helps them practice elaboration, and helps me learn their names more quickly.

Of course, I demonstrate: "I am Hilarious Holly because I love to make people laugh."

And to ward off trouble, I remind them that their adjective needs to be classroom appropriate.

But this year, first period of the day, first student to introduce himself says this: "I am Juicy Joshua because when you squeeze me you never know what's going to come out."

Day 1, people. Really?

My reaction: I yawned. Forty pairs of wide eyes stare at me. Silence blankets the classroom.  Smacking my lips together, I say, "Thank you Josh for demonstrating what is not classroom appropriate and for making me throw up in my mouth before it's even 8:30."

I also learned that I have "swag."  In case you don't know, "swag" is short for swagger, which means confidence and "game." So, I guess I'll add that to my dating profile and maybe I'll get matched with twenty-one year-olds. Groovy.

My colloquial lexicon continued to expand. When I asked "Beast Brandon" why he chose that word-- after I told him that it is not an adjective, so then he said, "I meant 'beasty'"--he looked at me and said simply, "Because I'm a beast."

"Well, you don't look very hairy to me," I said.  "And your hands aren't claws, so I'm not sure what you mean."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he meant; the echoes of "Juicy Joshua" ringing in my head.

"It means I'm tough," Brandon tells me.  Then he flexes his cannons, just in case I need a visual.

Upon asking for a more specific definition, I learned that a "beast" can take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Stars of actions films are usually "beasts," like characters played by Chuck Norris and Jason Statham.

And finally, I can add "put her (or him) on the blast" to my harvest of knowledge for the week. In my junior college class, I have them introduce each other, and one student said about his partner, "She is very shy so she hates that I am putting the blast on her right now."

Being a trained professional and holding a master's degree in English, I was able to figure out what the student meant, but I inquired anyway. I want to throw down my slang accurately. What "putting the blast on someone" means is to draw attention to or put the spotlight on someone. I asked if I could shorten it to just "blasting him/her," but I was told that the "put her (or him) on" part was critical. "To blast" someone is totally different than "to put someone on the blast."

So, now that I've finished putting my first week of school on the blast, I'm going to use my swag to tame some beasts. But, I am not getting anywhere near anyone who is juicy.

A Teacher's Purgatory: Summer School and Technology

If you've read my posts about how the iPhone jacks up my life, or if you've interacted with me in person for more than fifteen minutes, you know that technology and I have a tumultuous relationship.

I accept the necessity technological competency; I accept the benefits of technological progress. If it weren't for computers, it would have taken a lot longer to produce my novels. And yes, I am willing to admit that it has contributed to my growth as a writer because I can type in time with my thoughts and experiment with different genres and styles more easily.

BUT

It complicates my life, much like the iPhone. My attitude doesn't exactly help: it bores me and because of that I don't spend a lot of time futzing with it. So when I have problems (which I frequently do), I am unwilling to spend a lot of grey cells or time on it. If I have a computer issue during one of my high school classes, I just freak out until a student helps me either out of pity or out of a desire to shut me up. If I have one at home, I call everyone I know until I find someone who knows how to fix it.  If I can't find a lifeline, I take my laptop to a repair shop run by a couple of Russian gentlemen and roll in with a lot of cleavage, batting my eyelashes and feigning helplessness.

I have yet to pay for computer repair, but I'm pretty sure they are on to my game.

The fact that I am publishing some of my work online is pure irony. Or hypocrisy. Whatever:  TomatO, TomAto. (Note that I can't even figure out how to add an accent mark to the appropriate letters. Oh well, can't capitalization be used in any way that I need it?)

Therefore, my feelings about technology + the importance of technology in contemporary society + the fact that I'm OCD + the fact that I have the worst memory = disaster.  Add to that the trials and tribulations of summer school and you'll begin to understand that I am armed to bring in the apocalypse (I need to give Apple some competition).

Allow me to explain.

I am teaching two classes this summer: one high school; one junior college. Two different campuses; two different classrooms (neither of which are mine during the regular school year).  FIVE different computers.

I try to avoid using my personal computer for work--courtesy of OCD--, but in the cases that I absolutely have to, I save everything to a flash drive. My personal computer has Microsoft Office 2010; the computer in my classroom has Microsoft Office 2007. Simpatico.  But I am not in my classroom for either of my summer classes.

No problem, the high school just bought me a laptop; I cart that sucker around.

Silly me. I should have known that even though the school was generous enough to purchase me a laptop, it couldn't help throwing in a monkey wrench: Microsoft 2003.

No problem. I happen to have bought Microsoft 2010 to install on three computers and since I only own one, that leaves two computers to benefit from my generosity. As it turns out, I can't even change the date and time on the computer without an administrative password, and believe me, no one in their right mind would put the word "administrative" anywhere near my job description.

I called one of the head mucky-mucks of technology for our district and asked if I could run my new laptop by his office so he could install the program for me. He told me that he couldn't do that. Apparently, only programs bought by the district can be installed on its computers. In other words, they can't install one program that I bought onto one of their computers, but if the district buys it, okie dokie. Only after I put in a work order and wait for two months for them to get to me.

My plan to install a program that will single-handedly bring down the entire school district under the guise of Microsoft 2010 was thwarted.

But, I had a plan B: I re-saved all my files onto a flash drive in Microsoft 2003 format  and then transferred them to my work laptop and if I used only that computer for work I wouldn't have to keep remembering to save in 2003, because with my memory, I'd forget more than I'd remember. And I didn't worry about not wanting to haul the laptop around because my OCD would demand it.

In the classroom that I teach my high school summer class, I use my laptop for instruction, but I have to use that room's computer to go online so I can take attendance and update grades. If the district won't allow me to install Microsoft, it sure as fuck isn't going to give me the password to tap into the wireless network (believe me, I've already asked about that. Their answer: NO ONE has the wireless access code).

Clearly, I don't get paid enough to understand this shit.

No biggie. Running back and fourth between computers gets some exercise in. It does get risky when it comes to printing, because I have to remember to eject my flash drive so I have it for my college class.

For my JC class, I have a computer in that classroom which is hooked up to a LCD projector, DVD player and surround sound speakers. But, no printer. I have to go down the hall to the part-time faculty lounge to print anything.

At least their computers don't have Microsoft 1800 on them.

Despite all of the differences between computers, I had been managing with few hiccups . . . until last week.

One of my JC students asked if he could take the final early so that he could attend a family reunion and I acquiesced. He was more than willing to work around my schedule and made sure to ask me before adding the class. When the time came to do so, I had to scramble to get it together because I had procrastinated. For those of you who aren't teachers, writing a test is actually quite difficult. And it takes a lot of time.  And if you are me, you will make it 10x more difficult than it needs to be (refer back to the formula for the apocolypse).

The night before I needed the final ready, I decided to go to dinner with a couple friends, drink some wine, and then go home and write the test.  Great plan, right?  It gets better: I left my work laptop at the high school.

But I had my flash drive (because I have that thing duct-taped to my body at all times).  After dinner, I simultaneously wrote my final, chatted with my friends, and drank more wine. Once finished, I printed that bad-boy up and put it and my flash drive into the bag I carry all my JC stuff in.  How responsible am I?

But, I did not lay the bag against my front door, so the next morning, I left WITHOUT it. No final. No flash drive. No brain.

I didn't realize my error until I had reached the high school. I live too far away to turn around and get it before my morning class, but I could go in-between my high school and JC class. But, the extra two hours that would put me on the freeway was not attractive.

Luckily, my friend Cher works from home and lives only blocks from me. And she has a key to my apartment.

I called her to tell her about my dilemma. After she finished laughing, she told me to email her all the passwords, name of files, etc she would need to get onto my personal computer and email it to me. She ducked out during her lunch break, emailed me every file with the word "final," "test," and "exam" in its title and even took my personal laptop home with her just in case.

Cher may be on a mission to ruin my playlist, but she also is on a mission to save me from myself. Thank God.

Six files were emailed to me; none of them was the final I had written the previous night. As I was reaching for the phone to give her a call, I remembered that I had saved the final to my flash drive only.

Fuck me.

Let's all say "yay" for OCD.

Cher would have been willing to go back to my place to get my flash drive, but I figured I had asked enough of her for one day. Keeping me alive is a tough job, and I wanted her to save her strength for the next time I screwed up. Also, all my materials for my JC class were also at home, and even though I have my JC files on my high school computer, they were probably out-dated (I revise my curriculum often). I had been willing to wing it, but now I figured I had better just man-up and drive home.

The round-trip commute should have taken about 1 1/2 hours. It took 2 1/2 because a) It was 3 p.m. and b) every street between my job and my home is currently undergoing major road construction.

I showed up to administer the final late, sweaty, and pissed. But the real bummer is that the only person I had to blame was myself.

Moral of the story: do not disrupt The Vancester's system.

How My Friend Is Ruining My Music

And I am not going to change this friend's name; I am throwing her right under the bus.

My two BFFs -- Lisa and Cher--and I decided on a last-minute trip to Solvang, CA for some quaint culture, boutique shopping, and WINE. I have known both of these amazing women for 30 years. As teens, we had similar music tastes; as adults, we have definitely struck out on our own: I love hard rock; Cher, country; Lisa, Indie Music spiced up with some Top 40.  It was my turn to drive, but feeling unusually accommodating, I decided to create a playlist that all three of us could enjoy (I almost made Cher psychotic after forcing her to listen to my music during the four-hour drive to Las Vegas).

So, I created a pretty cool playlist featuring the favorites we all shared from our youth -- Duran Duran, Def Leppard, Beastie Boys, Depeche Mode-- with a few of Cher and Lisa's current favorites thrown in.

Well, Cher must have not approved, because during our drive home, she managed to ruin a few of my favorites.

During the Bee Gees hit, "You Should Be Dancing," when they hit the first chorus, Cher said about the line, "What are you doing in the back, ahhh?" she said:

"Don't you guys think he's saying: 'Do you do it in your butt?' It sounds like he certainly does."

The next time the chorus rolls around, Lisa and I focus and burst out laughing: "He totally does!"

Every time they sang the chorus, all I could do was guffaw like a 16-year-old stoner.

When TLC's song, "Silly Ho" filled the car, after the line, "I'm not a chick you can hit," she asked, "Did she just say 'I am not a chicken head'?"

Yes, Cher. R&B artists often use farm animals as metaphors.

That is how she sang that line for the rest of the song.

The final shot? As she climbed out of my car, the song "She's Crafty" by Beastie Boys was thumpin' and she drops, "And with this one, it sounds like he saying, 'She's crapping'."

I will never be able to listen to those songs again in the same way. Next time I'm loading up Disturbed, Avenge Sevenfold, Seether, and Breaking Benjamin.  I can totally handle psychotic better than the visual of the members of the Bee Gees in sliver, skin-tight body suits) having anal sex while singing.  A disco balling spinning above their heads.

I guess I could do the same to her the next time she drives and I must endure her music. But, she listens to country and there's not much more damage I can do to their lyrics.

A Teacher's Purgatory: Summer School

No high school teacher wants to teach summer school: not even the teacher who loves his/her craft, who loves kids, who would still teach even if he/she won the lottery.

Yes, even that teacher doesn't want to teach summer school.

Any teacher who teaches summer school does so because he/she has to for financial reasons. And I mean I-won't-be-able-to-eat reasons. These teachers aren't good savers--or have financial goals beyond a normal teacher's salary and might want to consider administration. Those fools have to work in the summer as part of their contract, but they make A LOT more money.

I'm a little of both: I don't save well and I live like I am already a published and a successful author. So, my punishment is summer school.

And since I am angry and have a flair for drama, summer school for me is HELL. Total hell-- flames, pitchforks, and demons to rule over. So, I guess that makes me Satan. You'd think that prospect would make it more attractive, but . . .

It's HELL I tell you.

Homelessness, starvation, the pole are looking better and better every day.

I have 48 students (no, that's not a typo) ranging from ages 14-17 who have all failed English. 38 of them are boys.

I'm in HELL.

Picture dealing with 48 of your worst customers, clients, or employees for 2 1/2 hours a day for 24 days. The most immature, the most idiotic, the least motivated--the ones with the most attitude. All at once.

I just finished day 12 and I might not make it without committing a felony.

I take pride in my work. Yes, I entered teaching to pay the bills until I get published, but much to my chagrin, I find that I do love it--during the months of September- June.  But, faced with having to teach this summer, I decided that all I wanted to do was get through it.

That takes a lot of patience and very few standards.

This is where I might get myself in trouble because I know one of my current bosses and one of my former bosses (you know who you are, mister) will probably read this, but shit, I have tenure.

I am not showing movies. I teach vocabulary and grammar every day. The students have a test every week. I make them read. I make them write.

But, I try to make it interesting: right now, we are reading literature related to insanity. We've read excerpts from Fight Club and One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest; we've analyzed "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" as a poem. Read some Edgar Alan Poe. Currently, I do have them working on a synthesis essay, but I am offering so much guidance a monkey on acid could follow me.

You wanna listen to your iPod (my school has a strict no-iPods-ever rule) while working? Okay. Keep that phone out and update your Facebook periodically--as long as you are fairly focused. While I am distributing handouts, go ahead and play Angry Birds.

You hear this phrase a lot in my room: "Okay everyone, unplug and look up here because I've got something to tell [teach] you."

During the normal school year, I send one or two students to the dean.  One or two a year. Last year, I didn't write a single referral. I have excellent classroom control. In fact, when I do send students to the dean, they send SWAT up to my room because they assume something HUGE is going down.

My reputation among the students is that I'm a "hard-ass" who makes my students work, but that I'm cool. I have a strict "no bullshit" policy, but enforcing it is a bitch with summer school kids because they assume I am as clueless as they are.

On the first day, I had a student taken out of the room by security for defiance.

I had a student claim that the giant bong he drew on his paper right in front of me was a cup with a straw. When I rolled my eyes and informed him that a) I'm not a moron and b) I have a legal obligation to report suspicion of drug use, he accused me of being judgmental.

Right kid, people who don't smoke weed draw bongs all day long.

I threw his ass out.

Yesterday, this a student said to me with much indignation: "I'm not stoned, Ms. Vance, I am hungover -- okay?"

My response: "Well, since you are in summer school, how do you think that drinkin' thing is working out for you?"

On that note, another student who has attended 5 out of 12 days so far told his classmate that he hasn't been coming because he's been smoking too much weed--I heard him loud and clear even though students believe that teachers become deaf and blind the moment they sit at their desks. And then he strolled over and asked me for make-up work.

I have perfected my fuck-off expression.

A student threw papers at me.

That one almost required SWAT. Let's just say he's not in summer school anymore.

I've put students in corners. Straight-up desk in the corner, student staring at the wall.

I've lost count of how many I've had to send outside for a little chat.

One particular day, after sending two students to the office, I said: "Okay everyone, all iPods and phones need to disappear. I see a wire or an earbud, hear a bleep or a buzz, I am taking you phone, iPod, hand-held center of your world, and running it over with my car."

"I'm done with you," I continued. "I am trying to make this as painless as possible by reading stuff that is edgy and interesting. But, I have no problem handing out worksheets for 2 1/2 hours and if you even fart without asking permission, I'm throwing you out."

"No more Fight Club. No more Metallica. No more Angry Birds. Nothing but Puritan Literature, Charles Dickens, and T.S. Eliot poetry."

Well, that is if I can figure out what the heck Eliot is writing about. That dude is complicated.

"Test prep until your eyes fall out."

Tomorrow? "A thirty-minute lecture on the dash vs. the hyphen." And I'm not nearly as entertaining as Missed Periods.

Forty-eight pairs of wide eyes staring at me in fear.

I finish with, "You want the bitch? Here she is!"

From somewhere in the room, I hear whispered, "You mean she gets worse?"

"Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill"-- Buddha

If Buddha is correct, then I am doing my part to destroy the future minds of America.

Some of the funniest incidents come from misuse of words, and if you teach English to teenagers, you will find yourself giggling (or screaming) a lot.

Or, if I am your English teacher, you'll find yourself giggling (or screaming) on the way to your therapist.

Available from Cafe Press

On the second day of the new school year, I used to teach students about the difference between Standard American English, slang, and dialects to help them understand why certain situations call for certain ways of speaking: you wouldn't use Standard American English when socializing with friends just as you wouldn't use slang with a teacher, employer, or anyone else not from your generation.

One year as I was transitioning from slang to dialects, I announced quite loudly: "Okay, now we are moving on to dicks." Immediately after I heard my diction faux pas, I threw my arms in the air like a referee signalling a touchdown and shouted, "Day two everybody!"

Forty pairs of wide eyes stared back at me.  That their teacher even knew what a dick was seemed to have stunned them.

Last year, while reading from "Narrative of Captivity and Restoration of Mary Rowlandson"--a horrific account of her imprisonment to the Native Americans in 1675--I managed to turn a scene of violence into a snuff narrative. After reading about "bowels being split open" and a nursing mother and her child being shot through, I concluded by saying, "the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon [the pilgrims] over their fornication."

I stopped. The last word was supposed to be "fortification." I pictured a bunch of pilgrims doing it doggy style while shooting up at the Indians on the roof.  I couldn't help sputtering a few Beavis and Butthead chuckles.

I know. There's something wrong with me.

Of course, I was the only one who laughed because the students had no idea what "fornication" meant, even though they probably engaged in it more than I did. So, instead of seeing this humor in my mispronunciation, they watched me giggle at the idea of innocent men, women, and children being slaughtered.

Then there was the time I told my students to "put away their notebooks because I was passing the testies out." I was trying to play off a persona that is so not me: cutesie and playfully condescending (I'm naturally sarcastically condescending).

And I often say fuck-tion instead of "function."

I could be on Law and Order Special Victims Unit. As myself.

I really threw out a good one the other night during the Advanced Composition class that I teach at the junior college during the summer. This class was dedicated to diction: denotation, connotation, phonetics and such.  I end the class with a lecture on the phonetics and purpose of profanity. Clearly, I cuss a lot during this lecture.

I had decided to give the students a break beforehand. As they were getting up to leave the room for a break, I overheard a student utter to another student a phrase that included the word "fuck" as a noun, adjective, and adverb. I smirked at the versatility of the word, which alerted the student that I could actually hear him. Embarrassed, he apologized for his language. To put him at ease I was going to say, "Don't worry about it, I'm going to say 'fuck' a lot after the break."

But, that's not what I said.

I forgot a word.

(drum roll while readers try to figure out what I did say)

Wait for it . . .

Wait for it . . .

Instead, I said, "Don't worry about it because I'm gonna fuck a lot after the break."

Let's just say no one was late coming back from the break.

And my second period seniors will not forget to turn in their composition notebooks on Wednesday. Why? Because when I reminding them, I said, "On Wednesday, I am going to start collecting your condoms."

From the silence, once small voice utters, "Well, we know Ms. Vance had a good weekend."

OMG.

Qurious Quirks

Good thing I'm pretty, because I'm not too bright.

Almost jacked-up the blogfest. 

But, I've regrouped and am ready to OWN IT!

I wrote my first novel when I was 16, while grounded for a very long time (I fucked up big, yo).  It started as a Stephen King It rip-off and has been through several revisions since. The exploding YA market combined with the fact that I was a YA when I wrote it makes it the logical next project. 


It is horror, of course, called The Gifted, the Cursed, and the Wicked.


It has eight main characters. Eight. And about 5 supporting characters.  As much as it hurts--deleting a character feels a lot like murder--I need to scale down.


Luckily, I stumbled onto this great blogfest:

Hosted by Paper Mountain

I am going to use it as an opportunity to a) fine-tune characters developed by my 16-year-old brain and b) figure out which ones can go. *tear* I am to develop five questions that will bring out a "quirk" in one of my characters. Those participating will answer my questions in the comments and I will do the same on theirs!


Those of you not participating, answer the questions for yourself! Or answer them from the perspective of your favorite fictional character! Or, or answer them from the perspective of someone you would find intriguing.


I'm going to develop my questions around Kristina Knight.  She was supposed to be me, or what I wanted to be, and now I feel she needs to be her own person and not my ego, so I think she's a good candidate.


1. Which bad habit of your character drives other the characters crazy?

Kris will open up a can of Diet Coke, drink part of it, and then forget about it and go open another one. She'll have six cans scattered through her apartment by the end of the weekend.

2. How would your character communicate "I need help" with just body language?

She crawls into her boyfriend's lap and contracts into a fetal position.

3. If your character had only one night in Las Vegas, what would he/she do?

Kris would hit the night clubs and dance all night long.

4.  How does your character regard his/her cell phone?

An onerous necessity. She keeps it on her so that her friends don't bitch at her for not responding to their messages right away. But it's not a smart phone; it's not decorated. She does not cross off the days of her calendar anticipating when the first day of her early-upgrade window. 

5.  What habit will your character never be able to break without some kind of intervention?

Chewing on her cuticles while watching television.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why are teenager's so stupid?"

As my recent post indicated, I teach seniors in high school. It is 8 days until graduation. I no longer stand in front of a room extemporizing on the beauty and relevance of literature and rhetoric while 40 pairs of wide, shining eyes gaze up at me, eagerly hanging on my every word. No more hands shoot into the air as students cry, "Pick me, Ms. Vance. Pick me!" No more do I hear the phrases, "That poem was awesome!", "This novel changed my life," or "I am learning so much in here."

Because you know that shit happens every day in my classes.

Regardless, right now, I am just trying to stay alive. My most conscientious seniors won't do anything--except ask me 1000 questions about graduation procedures even though I have ZERO to do with coordinating the ceremony. But, I am bombarded with calls from counselors and parents concerning failing seniors, wanting final grades even though finals weeks isn't even here yet; juniors who just now decided to ask me about making up that test from February; papers that I've procrastinated grading; one principal telling me to teach until the bitter end while another one tells me to turn in my textbooks, NOW!

To quote a colleague: "My brain is hammered right now."

Still, I am trying to maintain some fraction of decorum. I still enforce showing up on time, I refuse to take any late work, I've assigned each class a "project" to keep them busy (which we all know I probably won't grade) and I have not shown a single movie!

NOT ONE.

But I am losing my grip, finger by finger.

Thank God teenagers can be so stupid--it is keeping me entertained.

One of my senior classes took a final today on the novel Frankenstein. Multiple choice. Fifty questions.
After writing question #49, my brain just died. Fizzled out. Shut down.

Shouldn't have done all those drugs in high school.

So, I tacked on this question to the end of the test:

50. Ms. Vance is all EXCEPT:

            A. Brilliant

            B. Beautiful

            C. A man

            D. Funny

            E. The ruler of classroom R102

Out of 38 students 35 answered C, 2 answered B, and 1 answered A.

Two students think I am an ugly man; one student thinks I am a stupid man.

Awesome. 

I pondered not changing their answers on the scantron and making them take the one-point hit on their grade. Yes, I found the error (or prank) hilarious, but what I found even more funny was the fact that they forgot to take into consideration the fact that I HAVE TO MAKE AN ANSWER KEY.  Instead, I changed their answers and then sent an email to the entire staff at my school about the incident (leaving the students' names out, of course), but the aid that is in my room during that class called me immediately to asked which students, so I told her and let the power of rumor do its work.

I don't just open a can of worms; I open a vat of worms. My inbox blew up with not only sarcastic retorts, but also affirmations that I was pretty and that I was smart and that people liked me dammit! I oscillated between laughing and saying "ahhhhh" for the rest of the day. I think my favorite was the phone call from one of my colleagues, who has also been a good friend for the fourteen years I've taught, asking, "Is the stupid, ugly man who rules R102 available?"

I should have said, "No, because he's with your wife," but I was too busy laughing.

By the following day, rumor had done its work. The three confused students (or pranksters) rolled into class wailing with excuses and apologies for their error while I feigned offense for all about 5 minutes. They claimed that they though they were marking what I was, not what I wasn't.

I love adolescent back-peddling.

But, when the Assistant Principal popped into my class to discuss the importance of graduation and how it represents all that they've accomplished, he jerked a thumb at me and added, "I mean, you've had to put up with this ugly, stupid guy all year."

The class exploded in laughter.

Bravo, sir. Bravo.

To quote my grandmother: "Why are teenagers so stupid?"

When I started blogging, I promised myself that I would not allow it to turn into a mock-my-students blog, and believe me, I've got enough material to take the blog down that road.

This blog is supposed to be about writing--my writing specifically. And it's been relatively easy to keep it all about me.

But today, I can't resist.

Inspired by Lana Banana's post, I must share the greatest student quote EVER.

At the high school where I teach, we are in the final stages of the senior project. It's a district requirement for graduation; an assessment of the cumulative skills of seniors. Every senior must complete it--no exceptions.

Here's what the babies are required to do within a semester: write a 6-page research paper on a topic of their choosing, take the content of that paper and put it into practice for 15-30 hours of fieldwork under the guidance of a mentor, and then present their experience to a panel of judges from the community. This project is designed to push students out of their comfort zone, make them responsible for their learning, and help them explore career paths--a cutting of the umbilical cord, if you will.

And it's an excellent torture device for us teachers; only the most sadistic (and masochistic) of us get to teach it.

I've been teaching it for 14 years.

As my colleagues who are also mothers have said, "The senior project is like childbirth: unbelievable pain that results in the greatest of rewards."

Right now, I and my fellow SP teachers are in hard labor.  The final presentations are Thursday and Friday of this week.  Tensions are high because teenagers are freakin' out, and teachers have had it. Because the senior project is so individualized, teachers are scrambling to solve a variety of "hitches" spiced up with an abundant amount of teenage drama and a barrage of parent phone calls wondering why we can't dedicate hours of our time to their lovely child who up until now hasn't done DICK.

So let me be a little more specific: senior project teachers are currently akin to schizophrenics in hard labor. Without our medication. And the anesthesiologist is nowhere to be found.

I know that on Thursday and Friday, it will be rapturous as I watch my students march off to their presentations and return glowing and elated. There will be laughter, hugs, and camaraderie. It's the type of day that reminds me why I stay in teaching (I went into it to pay bills until I got published--ha, ha).

But right now . . . the pole as a source of income is looking better and better.

Right now . . . I want to change "what I'm looking for" criteria on my online dating profiles to "an elderly, rich man with a delicate ticker."

Students are currently practicing their presentations, which covers everything they have learned and highlights the specific skills they have acquired.

One of my students did his project on rap music and poetry.  In his research paper, he justified rap as a legitimate form of poetry that adheres to the traits of great poetry as outlined by the masters. For his fieldwork, he took an online poetry class, wrote his own song, and recorded it. Overall, I thought this project to be pretty good.

But, this is how he started his presentation (and here is the greatest student quote EVER): "Poetry has been around before literacy. Ya know, back when everything was oral? Ya know, before Christ."

He finished his presentation by plugging his iPod into my portable speakers and rapping for five minutes. No mention of his paper; no mention of the skills he learned during his fieldwork. Even if I had had an Urban Dictionary on hand and several gang members to act as consultants, I still wouldn't have had any idea what he was talking--excuse me--rapping about.

At this point, I just want the doctor to come in and say, "Fuck it. We're doing a Cesarean."

So, in honor of the end of the school year, when teachers are exhausted, crawling toward the finish line, piles of students on their backs, I invite my community of educators to share those moments that justify the title of this blog series. I need the laugh.

Shit, we all do.

"Give me your words, your view, Your huddled masses of dirty thoughts and nasty rhetoric"

To all the men out there: I need your minds.

Yes, gentlemen, your minds (I'll be asking for your bodies in the next post).

To be more specific, I need your dirty minds. Your filthy minds.

No, this isn't a dream.  There are no hidden cameras. I have not been hired by any of your wives or girlfriends to entrap you.

But I need to get inside your head. Way up in there. So far up I have a hard time finding my way out.

Guide me. Teach me. Corrupt me.

I need to know how the most childish, perverted side of you would describe a woman's body --any woman's body-- to another man. How does a conceited, smooth, unscrupulous womanizer see a woman? How would he describe having sex with a woman for whom he feels nothing but contempt?

I want the words, the slang. Unleash the inner asshole. Turn him loose . . . turn him loose on me. I want crude, rude, and raw. Offensive.

No, this is not for my sexual gratification (well . . . maybe a little).

This is for a piece I have written called "The Basement" (see review from Garrett Calcaterra at the right). It is one of the very few pieces where I take on a male persona and I want to get it right before I submit. I think I am close, but I think the voice is off a bit. So, some gentlemen feedback, pretty please.

Below is an excerpt. You can comment by suggesting substitutions for my current rhetoric, or if you could just leave me some key phrases or diction that's be great too.  I need man language.

Disclaimer: I do not think this is how all men are. I am trying to write the voice of a total dick.

The Basement

She was on him like a cat the moment he walked through the front door: jumping onto his back and clawing at his face. Cursing, Justin reached back, trying to grab her by the hair and yank her forward over his shoulders.  He was going to throw the bitch across the room, find the money, and leave. And if she tried to stop him, he would not hesitate to punch her straight in the face.

            But then her fingers hooked into his mouth. A chalky, bitterness bounced back into this throat.

“What the fuck!” he barked, shrugging her off of him, he staggered forward. He hunched over, contracting his throat in an effort to cough up whatever she gave him. But it was too late, his coated tongue smacked against the roof of his mouth. Straightening, he turned to bolt, but only managed a few steps before blackness overtook him. As the room jumped and he plummeted, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, her arms crossed over her chest and those painted red lips smiling.

                        *                                                           *                                                           *

            Justin snapped his fingers in Stan’s face, “What the fuck dude?”  He was right in the middle of telling them about how he dissed this chick who was in his Poly Sci 101 class when Stan suddenly straightened up like someone had jammed a stick up his ass and looked passed Justin toward Legends’ entrance.

Twisting at the waist, Justin looked scanned the busy scene. It didn’t take long for him to find the interruption: short, black hair; white skin; black eyeliner an inch thick around her blue eyes, extending out from the corners like she thought she was Cleopatra. Lip piercing in the corner of lower lip, sporting a black hoop. Nose piercing; eyebrow piercing.

            Bright red lip-stick.
            Fishnet stockings, a short checkered skirt, and a black T-Shirt with the Goth version of that white cat—Hello Kitty?—printed on the front. Great legs: thin and long. Perky tits accentuated by the tight shirt. Justin snickered. Ms. Emo had a chill.

          Justin leaned over to Kyle and said, “She must be lost. Should we tell her that the cutting party is probably downtown?” Sunday football at Legends sports bar didn’t exactly attract her kind.

Plan B for My Writing: Bumper Stickers

As I mentioned in an earlier post--see "What We Writers Do for Our Readers"-- I am one-third of a wonderful writer's group.

And, as I also mentioned before, we are all very different women. This comes out not only in our writing, but also in the way we take notes for revisions.

Jenny, aka Missed Periods, doesn't take notes at all. As Mindi and I make suggestions, she maintains eye contact, asks pertinent questions, and when she feels that something does need to be written down, she asks us to note it on our copies of her work. I find this method of "note-taking" bewildering because I'd forget my name if I didn't have to write down on a daily basis.

To maintain balance, Mindi takes copious notes. As Jenny and I dialogue about her submission, she is feverishly writing on her copy of the draft. Or, if we are working at her place, she will bust our her Mac and feverishly type.  It's almost as if she's doing the revisions as we are suggesting them.

I am a little in-between: I have a journal of fragmented instructions for overall revisions. For line edits, Mindi and JennyB are great about making those marks on their copies, so when I revise, I need both marked-up copies and my journal. 

As I was leafing through my notes that probably span at least a year back, I realized that if anyone read my journal, not knowing the nature of its contents, he or she would think I was a homicidal maniac. The female American Psycho.

But then, it hit me. These notes were going to make me rich!  I could market them as bumper stickers!

I know that there are a lot of great bumper stickers already, but I have a niche (or two)

Bumper stickers with relationship advice:

   

Stickers for those women who don't want their Match.com date to follow them home or for those women who want their Craig's-list-booty call only to fuck them.

                                  

So, what do you think? Maybe, instead of finding my name on the spine of a book, you'll see it . . .

Here.

Final Destination VI

I am not a fan of reality television. I want my entertainment to take me out of reality not put me back in it, especially if what the networks are touting as "reality" is in any way authentic.

 Desperate Housewives paved the way for The Real Housewives of *insert city of choice*. Honestly, I don't want to be a real housewife in any city, and I certainly don't want to be a desperate one, so I bypassed this phenomena.

The OC forced Orange County residents to create Laguna Beach: the Real OC in order to clear up any false representation. And thank God, because an accurate depiction of privileged teenagers in Southern California is a huge part of the American identity.

Big Love drove viewers to The Real Big Love (men wondering if they can actually get away with having multiple wives; women wondering if there are actually women crazy enough to be one of multiple wives). I'm waiting for the series where a woman has multiple husbands. And birth control.

But, as karma always finds a way to kick me in the ass, it seems that I am adding to the trend of reality shows based on successful television series (or the fictional series was originally based on what later became a reality show--it's probably a does-art-imitate-life-or-does-life-imitate-art conundrum).

The series that my life mimics? The Final Destination movie series.  I think I'll call it Holly Almost Died--Three times.

Promotional Poster

I considered making this a part of the "A Little Fact; a Little Fiction" series (I actually almost died 2 1/2 times and was going to exaggerate one of them and see if anyone could distinguish the fact from fiction) but I think show-casing my skills in horror and crime would better utilize my writing talent (and maybe draw attention away from my lack of coordination, because that's just not sexy).

Before I get into how I almost died three times on Tuesday, March 29, I must refer back to the blog post from February 22, "To Quote My Grandmother: 'Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?'" and the case of the missing doorstop, bungee cord, and salad bowl. (If you haven't read it, stop now, read the post, and then come back).

I figured the cause of the theft of the seemingly random items was the result of a teenage prank, but now I realize it was an act of heroism. Some altruistic student must have had a premonition of my death, which I have deduced has something to do with me falling off the ramp right outside my classroom door, and so took the means of easy egress from R102 in order to save my life. That extra few minutes it took me to look for the missing doorstops and then throw a fit once I realized them gone held me back from death's fateful grip.

And just recently, the theft of another bungee cord only confirms my belief.

And the salad bowl? I was probably destined to die at lunch time. The taking of it was meant to be a clue: lunchtime is a precarious time for me.

But, Death has found me.     

The first time was on that nefarious Tuesday morning. After informing my student teacher that I would be heading down the hill to do some xeroxing, I sailed out the door (held open by the aforementioned, recently-stolen bungee cord) made a sharp right turn, caught my shoe between two sheets of aluminum that form the ramp, and launched forward, arms outstretched like Superman in flight.

I screamed. The two students heading toward my room screamed as well.

The corner of the railing that bordered the neighboring classroom's ramp lie directly in my path. I glanced down, saw the ramp passing away under me, wondering why gravity hasn't played her role. Why was I still seemingly in flight?

Cocking my head to the left, I pulled my hands back to shield my face from whatever it was destined to hit: the pavement or railing.

Crunch. Motion to stillness. Heat saturated the right side of my face, but there was no pain. In fact, I seemed to be standing. Not really standing, but upright, the tops of my feet resting on the pavement. I dragged my feet forward and planted them firmly on the ground. I was slightly bent forward at the waist, shoulders sagging.

Students were shouting: "Oh my God, Ms. Vance!"

Head still cocked to the left, I had a full view of the basketball courts that lined the row of portable classrooms. I tried to turn my head but couldn't; I tried to take a step backward but couldn't. Reaching a hand up, I felt the cold metal of the ramp's railing and my fingers followed it until ended at my forehead.

In my forehead.

Suddenly, I was face-down on the blacktop, staring at crumpled up Cheetos bags and empty Gatorade bottles littering the ground beneath my neighbor's ramp.

Jumping to my feet, I brushed the gravel and dirt off of my pants.  A couple of students clamoured around me, asking it I was okay.

I glanced at the corner of the rail that for a horrifying moment I believed had pierced my skull. Laughing, I waved off my inability to answer on embarrassment and continued on my way.

But Death had not been satisfied.

Later that day, I was leafing through all of my curriculum files, searching for supplemental materials for my student teacher.  The top two drawers, packed so tightly that I couldn't avoid slicing a cuticle or two as I squeezed my fingers between the manila folders, weighed more than the bottom two, which held my only purse and some portfolios of students' work. I opened the top drawer, couldn't find what I wanted; I opened the second drawer . . .

The entire file cabinet tilted forward. My student teacher leaped up, her palms slapping against its side in an attempt to rock it back, but it slipped from her hold.  I squatted in order to catch the file cabinet against my shoulder and then use my legs to push it back up, but instead a crack signaled a breaking bone and my shoulder dropped abnormally low. Pain streaked up my neck; the corresponding arm hanging limp.  My feet slipped out from under me and as I struck the cold floor, the file cabinet pinned me down. 

I lay there, attuned to the sparks of pain and throbs of panic. I heard my student saying, "Hold on, Holly." She managed to get a hold of it lift it up slightly so that I could worm out from beneath, but then I heard a sharp cry pop from her mouth and the file cabinet settled down on me again, this time more heavily. It was as if someone had climbed on top of it.

Its weight pressed down on my bones until a chorus of cracks and splinters of pain precluded the shattering of bone. My body seemed to deflate; my bones seemed to gather into a prickly mass beneath the tent of my skin.

I was standing again, my feet firmly planted on the ground, my hands braced against the file cabinet as I rocked it back into place.  My student teacher was laughing, saying, "Whoa, you almost pulled that thing down on you."

Blinking, I wobbled over to my desk chair and sat down. What is going on?

Swiveling my chair around to face my computer, I scooted forward, but only managed to move my butt forward, leaving the chair behind.  As I dropped off the edge of the chair, I saw the keyboard of my computer rushing toward my face . . .

And it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

It's Not What You Say, but How You Say It

After teaching my jaycee class this evening, I'm thinking of changing my blog series from "To Quote My Grandmother: 'Why are teenagers so stupid'?" to "Why the fuck am I teaching?"

I spent the weekend grading the first of five essays they will be writing for me; I would have rather been plucking my pubic hairs out one by one. It was that painful. I may not come out of this semester with the same intellect with which I went into it.

My jaycee students have funny experiences and a decent repetoire of wisdom to share, but they don't know how to share them.  Assaulted by texting language, misspellings, countless grammar errors, and slang that I don't understand, I found myself flinching as I read. (Did you know that if you are "talking to a guy/girl" you are in the first stages of dating? I talk to a lot of people, so I better rephrase how I communicate that otherwise I might be known as the whore of California). 

To address this problem, and save some of my brain cells, I developed a lesson that I thought would exemplify the importance of rhetoric. I started by projecting following scenes onto the board:

Bermuda hoped that the dude she jacked from the bar weren’t no microwave minded guy in bed.  Because sex is fun. Sex is a way to show love.

            She took her pants off, he took his pants off she looked at him he looked at her. The light was on.  Bermuda turned down the bedshits and then she got in bed and told him to "come here" and so he said "okay" and got into the bed.  He was so hot.

            She put it in her vagella. He said “ahhhhhh,” she said, “ohhhh” but she really liked it you know so anyways he came and then she came.  He got up and put on his pants. Right?

            Don’t u want 2 have this kind of six LOL!!!!  I mean, you know, sex?

It lay before me: hot, open, ready to be devoured.  Licking my lips, I caressed my fork before taking it up and thrusting into the pasta.  I twirled the firm yet tender noodles around the prongs and then scooping up a meatball, drew all toward my parted, red lips.

            I enveloped the bite dripping with marinara sauce. A few spicy droplets escaped through the corner of my mouth, but I lapped them up. Cradling the meatball on my tongue, I sucked it, rolled it around in my mouth, and slide it down my throat—warm, sweet and totally satisfying.

I asked my students to write about which activity they would rather engage in and why.

The response? Sputters of discomfort, shifting around in seats, avoidance of eye contact --with me--at all costs. 

Apparently, I had caused confusion. 

And then, one student asked: "Can't we have both? You know, have sex and then enjoy the spaghetti?"

Apparently, my students thought I was giving them the choice of having bad sex or good spaghetti. And a few seemed to have inferred that offer included my involvement.

To ameliorate this discomfort, I went into a lecture about how great writing can save an otherwise boring topic and how sloppy writing can ruin a stimulating topic. Careless writing created awkward sex; great writing created orgasmic spaghetti.

So then I asked, "Who wants to have some spaghetti?"

Two out of thirty students raised their hands.

I pointed out that given the two options, I'd rather have spaghetti too. And that what they have given me was bad sex.

Wide eyes stared at me, their slack expressions saying, "You'd rather have spaghetti than sex? You're an idiot."

And, I'm willing to bet that more than a few were thinking: "Man, do you need to get laid."

Maybe I do, but that wasn't the point.

Or, maybe just before I collect a class set of essays I need to have phenominal sex so that I don't give a shit about the quality of their writing.

Vampires

I love vampires (hence, the email address). I teach my students how they represent their contemporary culture. Movie posters of Nosferatu and Dracula hang in my classroom.

Promotional Picture for Dracula Film



My obsession began with the film Lost Boys (Kiefer Sutherland, if you happen across my blog: Will you marry me?) released in theaters during the summer before my freshman year in high school. I went to see it eight times; I listened to the soundtrack a hundred times.

In high school, I read Stephen King's Salem's Lot, which drew me away from the pop-culture sexiness of these creatures and mesmerized me with their evil, horrific side.

In college, I devoured Stoker's Dracula, Le Fanu's Carmilla, and nearly questioned my sexuality after reading about Geraldine in Coleridge's "Cristabel." 

Then I discovered Anne Rice. Her seductive writing had me wishing I was a gay man living in the 18th Century. She truly revolutionized the vampire in a way that I find engaging and culturally relevant. But, regardless of how sensational she portrayed the vampire life, the tinge of sorrow and tragedy associated with immortality made her readers voyeurs: titillated through observation but not quite ready to shed our mortal coil.

Now as the Twilight series and those of the same vampire vein infiltrate our culture, I wonder: What in the Hell happened?

Don't get me wrong, I think Stephanie Meyer is a great writer. She understands her audience and yet she doesn't write down to them.

I am all about the vampire evolving to fit its contemporary culture, but I am disappointed by the vampires of today.  I don't want my vampires to be in love; I don't want my vampires to propose marriage. I don't want a vampire with eighty-something years of experience to fall in love with a seventeen-year-old high school girl.

True Blood?  The Gothic Pleasantville.  But, the HBO series (sorry, haven't read the books) balances the tender and the terrible of the vampire.  I do like the angle of the vampire blood being a hallucinogen drug to us humans and becoming part of the illegal drug industry. Oh, and there's some pretty nice eye-candy (Alexander Skarsgard, if you happen across my blog: Will you marry me?)

But fairies and vampires--I think I'm out.

I'm dark. I like the forbidden. I like the idea of evil. If it's not "appropriate" or if I'm not supposed to do it--I really, really want to do it. Now that vampires are appropriate and popular, I find my interest waning.

I know. Real mature.

When I gripe about the current condition of the vampire, my friends usually suggest that I write a "respectable" vampire story. I finally did, a short piece entitled, "Rosemary for Remembrance" which was instantly accepted and published in an online magazine and is now available for download on Barnes and Noble's website. Even with that success, I resist a vampire novel because I feel like if I produce one now, I'd just be lumped with the mainstream vampire madness.

And, quite honestly, I didn't have a story line.

But, I think I do now.

A woman is found ripped apart in her Long Beach apartment. This is the first of a string of murders that span over LA and Orange County. The investigation leads detective Dr. Alan Zotikos to Fiona Blake, a history doctoral student at UCLA, who is protecting a secret concerning the killer's identity . . . if anyone would believe her.

During her research for her doctoral thesis, Fiona stumbled across a secret society of vampires whose mission is to both witness and record the most critical moments in history. This society not only houses the truth, but also controls how these events will be documented by the human race. These vampires, who call themselves The Chosen, keep their posts until too much life skews their objectivity and then they select their replacements. One of The Chosen who has rejected his mission and in his search for the perfect human to make his vampire companion begins a killing spree that threatens the secrecy of the society itself.

Weighing her passion for truth, her faith in history, her hunger for answers to history’s mysteries against the love for her fiancé, her growing attraction for Detective Zotikos, and her desire to stop the renegade vampire's murders, she must decide whether or not she will try to substitute herself in place of the next Chosen or expose them.

So, what do you think? I admit that "The Chosen" is a bit cliche, but that's all I have for now. I'd love some feedback: which historical mysteries would you like to see featured? If you read this blurb on the back of a book, would you be tempted to buy it? 


Please comment!