Mermaid Loni Lynne here and ready to go (after some technical difficulties due to a loose nut in front of the keyboard)! I am so happy to be back among my sisters in the pond! They welcomed the prodigal fish home with open fins and excitedly flapping tails.

I am back from a hiatus in which I had to take for health issues and working on my well-being. But everyone’s well-being is important and we as a society tend to take it for granted.

Little things we disregard about ourselves could lead to serious things if not treated and looked into. But weariness, stress and lack of a proper lifestyle are easy masks to fall back on. We’ve heard ourselves say it… “Oh, I’m just stressed. That’s why I’m not sleeping well.”

Just because ‘stressed spelled backwards is desserts’ doesn’t mean we should take it in stride. We have to fix the issues of our stress and move forward.

Because of a stressful block of time, I had been put out of commission. A visit to the hospital put me on the track to finding I had not only a hiatal hernia in my esophagus (which causes me to have esophageal spasms when stressed–think of getting a tortilla chip stuck in your esophagus and it not going up or down–that is how it feels without anything in there). Not fun! I couldn’t eat or drink for nearly a week without pain. Swallowing was a major issue.

My doctor ordered some tests and a procedure to take pictures of esophagus. In his findings he found the hernia but also something worse…I had Celiac Disease. I had been destroying the very vital villi lining of my intestines (the part that takes in the nutrients into our blood stream). Because of this I was anemic, tired, irritable…just not feeling well at all. I couldn’t function, my brain was sluggish as was my body in general.

How long had I been suffering? I don’t know. Long enough to feel the negative pull on my body.

That was a year ago, almost to the day. I had a follow-up with my doctor and even though I still must maintain a strict Gluten-Free (no wheat, rye, barley) diet, I was given an 8 on a 1 to 10 scale of success. My doctor was impressed and said to keep doing what I’ve been doing. My body is slowly repairing itself…as long as I don’t give in to Gluten.

I’m trying very hard to use that same lesson in issues with Stress. If I don’t feed myself a diet high in stress (gluten), then I can repair my stress issues.

I’ve organized my writing schedule to fit in with my personal schedule. It is a job to me so I treat it as such. Just as any professional would do, I keep a day planner of my writing, so I have six to eight hours a day (not everyone can do this), I take breaks to exercise, drink plenty of water and work on domestic things as needed. By the time my dear hubby comes home, I’m finished with my day, also.

Recently, I took a workshop with the wonderful Candace Haven on Fast Drafting. She had some great ideas about how to pump out your book in two weeks. The word count was my issue but knowing I can (and have) pumped out 1,000 words an hour and knowing I have time scheduled for just that purpose…I can get quite a bit done in my writing. But I am also going through edits, marketing, promotional, etc.

Just like a real job, schedule the time for each item to do. I love lists and marking items off as they are done is a major triumph in my days.

But remember to take time to enjoy your time, your health and well-being (mentally, physically and emotionally). If you don’t, the things that mean the most to you will suffer…leading to more stress.

One thing I’ve always done to keep stress at bay…hugs. Hugs and touch have been known to be cure-all for many issues and lowers blood pressure which is a big stress kicker.

So I used to say, ‘Raising my cup of French Vanilla Cafe to you’ (which I can no longer have)…I will now end with, “Wrapping my arms around you in a hug.’ Perhaps it will help with just a bit of stress in all of our lives.

Wrapping my arms around you in a hug,

Loni Lynne

Doing makeup on a group of male teachers – peers – who’ve never been in a theater production is a test of character.  The poor devil who gets his first “makeover” is in for a big surprise.  For me, a theater major and makeup artist for school plays in past years, it’s routine.

Over and over, they insisted the idea was outrageous.  Up to the point of hearing they would be on the receiving end of a foundation-laden sponge, they were thrilled with the idea of being in a play.  Memorize lines?  Check.  Stage direction?  Check.  Costumes?  Definitely check.  Costumes are fun! We get to pretend! We’re gonna be somebody else for an hour and fool our students into believing in our make believe for the afternoon!

And then…

Makeup?  Whoa.  No.  Not me.  You’re not doing this.  I am offended!  How could you tamper with this perfection?

Yeah. Like this.

You better not make me look like a girl!

In the end, they had to trust me.  One by one, they had to man up and (ack, ack) submit.

There were four Seniors in the cast, all veterans of high school productions.  They were the pros.  They understood.  They didn’t fight.  They threw themselves in the chair and got made up with not a whimper.  NOT ONE.

The grownups?  Oh, the bitching. The moaning.  The absurd SHOCK when they saw their reflection after ten minutes in my hands.

Foundation, powder, eyeshadow, blush. Lots of foundation, across the face, over the ears, down the neck, even on the head (many of them are going bald and the glow from their domes is… not attractive onstage).

requiring makeup on all sides. $$$

The final hurdle for every one of the men was the lipstick.  I had to touch their mouths with color – brilliant, extreme color.  It is an intimate, threatening part of the ritual, probably the hardest moment of the makeup routine, and absolutely necessary.  Only then would they be allowed to look at themselves in the mirror.

And react.

You made me look like this?

After the first “client” had done the walk of shame (“you look like a girl!”) the others knew what had to be done.

Submit.

And I realized – this is writing.  All the preparation, the denial, the angst, the sheer terror of putting yourself “out there” and allowing others to see you and your work, is part of the writer’s job.

Man up.  Pull up your big girl panties.  Get a grip.  Stop with the whining already.

Do your job. 

But remember – it’s better with lipstick.

Okay Mermaid gals and beloved visitors, I’m letting it all hang out.  I’ve taken off the make-up, the Spanx (for those who remember one of my previous posts) and the Wonderbra.  I stand before you in my all unglory.  What in the heck I’m talking about, you ask?  Here goes.

In a spurt of insanity, I’m putting my first 300 out for commentary.  Myself and an unnamed Mermaid are taking a Margie Lawson class and unlike the unnamed Mermaid, I’m confused.  I’ve been getting such contradictory advice on my opening paragraphs that I have decided to take my confusion to the Mermaids.  Who better to help?  So I’ve included two versions.  Version #1 was the original opening.  However, a few editors didn’t love it.. said not to start with an opening sentence.. give a bit of the character.  So I created a quick infodump.  However, the peanuts from Margie’s class didn’t like the infodump and said to start with the opening sentence.

Any and all thoughts are welcome, including but not limited to:  1) one version works better than the other, 2) both versions suck, 3) who is this?, 4) go back to where you came from, you illiterate foreigner.   (Just a few suggestions.)  So, my friends, have at it.  All thoughts are welcome.

VERSION #1

“My client is not a pimp.” Jessie Parker’s voice flew like a well lobbed arrow through the judge’s chambers.  “She’s a victim.”

The man seated to her left shifted in the leather chair, like a lizard finding a more comfortable perch before striking its prey.  He brought his hand to his mouth and gently cleared his throat.

Jessie dug her thumbnail further into the pockmarked pencil.  By now, she knew when assistant district attorney Jack Stanton cleared his throat, he wasn’t trying to evict a frog.  He was readying for a fight.

“Your honor,” he began, with the usual, this conversation is beneath me, drawl.  “Teri Willis has been arrested four times for prostitution.  The last time, arranging the meet.”

He stopped speaking.  It was like he knew his words were dipped in platinum.  Like it was beneath him to form a cogent argument.  Like his mere presence was argument enough.

The judge slipped his gaze toward Jessie.   Rebuttal?  He wordlessly said.

“The evidence is circumstantial and the witness unreliable,” she said.  “True, Ms. Willis has been arrested more than once for prostitution, but that does not make her a pimp.”

Her nail ventured back into the pencil.  Her cuticles, like her writing implements, looked like they’d been manicured by a barracuda.  It happened when she got nervous.  A leftover habit from her party-girl self she had yet to punt to the pavement.

She was about to continue her soliloquy when she heard something akin to a hiss.

Either someone indelicately snorted or the judge had a snake under his desk.

She zeroed in on Jack.   And there it was.  A hint of smirk, almost indiscernible beneath a granite slab of jaw.     Suspended somewhere between the Roman nose and irritatingly perfect cleft.

So that’s how it was going to be?  A speedy graduation from mutual unease to derisive snorting?

Their interactions have always been apprehensive.  As public defender and states’ attorney, it was natural they had a mutually wary relationship.  Except it was more than that.  Jack Stanton had it in his power to build or break her future.  Thank God he had no clue.

VERSION #2

Jessie Parker’s life began with a bad date.

Some would argue it began when her mother’s egg granted entry to the sperm of a never-to-be-mentioned man.

But to Jessie, it was on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, on the cusp of what was to be a very bad date, when her life truly began.

It was after that date she stopped dying her hair putrid shades of rainbow.  Stopped wearing skirts the size of napkins.  And stopped skulking with deadbeats.

And started studying.  Hard.

But since her bad date had the misfortune of taking place during the middle of junior year, no amount of round-the clock cramming could make up for eleven years of slack.  And so, off to community college she went.  From there, a four year university and then law school.  Not bad for first in her family to finish eighth grade.

And that’s how she found herself in the office of the public defender.  Helping those who didn’t wish to help themselves.

“My client is not a pimp.” Jessie flew like a well lobbied arrow through the judge’s chambers.  “She’s a victim.”

The man seated to her left shifted in the leather chair, like a lizard finding a more comfortable perch.  Before striking its prey.  He brought his hand to his mouth and gently cleared his throat.

Jessie dug her thumbnail further into the pockmarked pencil.  By now, she knew when assistant district attorney Jack Stanton cleared his throat, he wasn’t trying to evict a frog.  He was readying for a fight.