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Thursday, August 5, 2010
8:02 PM | Posted by Maureen | | Edit Post
- “Having an evil twin ain’t all bad. I have someone to blame everything on!” Dead Reckoning blew the flaming Twinkie out. The rum soaked treat cast an eerie flicker against the railing before going out with a puff of smoke. She took a messy bite, trying to catch the cream as it dribbled down her shirt.
Chance shivered, trying to block the conversation out as she hunched over the bowl of mini chocolate chips, painstakingly stuffing them one by one into the creamy white filling of a huge stack of waiting snack cakes.
- Bo’sun reached over and stabbed at the melted remains on Reckoning’s plate, getting a bite for herself. “It was all Scapegoat’s fault, anyway. Handy having her share the room. I like having someone to blame everything on!”
- “Hey! I brought the rum!” Scape’s brow wrinkled perfectly. “I knew I should have…”
- Chance looked up to glare at the blond. “Shut it or I’ll sic Stitch on you. Soon as he’s finished chasing the monkey.” The bartender groaned as she straightened her back, glancing at the Double Stuffed Twinkie pyramid; three feet high, glistening with sugar and sitting in a puddle of rum. “Quit eating them, I want to do this right!”
Sin reached out of the shadows, her black clad arm appearing as if unattached to a body. “Hey! Twinkies!”
Just then Chance threw the lit match on the stack. Sin jerked away as the whoosh of flame rose into the night…
Chance began her chant, “I am not an imposter… I am not an imposter… I am not…”
A delighted shriek filled the air as a blue streak flew from the yardarm. “TWINKIES!”
The white fluff, caramelized cake and melted chocolate flew into the air to rain down on the five pirates. Sin rushed to the water barrel and began to douse the bits of flame scattered on the deck, muttering about upsetting the captain.
- “This is my fault,” Scapegoat moaned.
The Bo’sun calmly picked a large piece of pastry out of Reckoning’s shoulder and popped it into her mouth. Reckoning did the same to the Bo’sun.
- Chance looked at the blue alien, stuffing remains of the ritualistic bonfire into his mouth and sighed. “Guess I need to actually rationally figure this out…”
The Nationals. I had a great time. I met with my agent. Stuck my foot in my mouth with my won-on-FB mentor, insulted Jennifer Ashley when I tried to compliment her… Drank too much (or not enough, I’m not sure), missed hearing Nora speak… Dressed up like a fixer of air ships at a party where no one knew me. (I lurk on the FF&P boards, but am invisible.)
Great time! Felt wonderful!
Until Saturday night. At the RITAS. Well, after the RITAS.
OK, confession time. I do not see myself ever winning a RITA. Ever. I don’t dream of it. Don’t really…well…want one. (I wouldn’t mind a Prism Award… I could see me with one a’ those!)
Am I fooling myself and secretly lust for a RITA? I don’t think so… I wouldn’t turn one down, I just doubt that anything I write will ever fit into this possibility. So, why envision that. I’d rather envision other thing…like me on the cover of Pirate Magazine… (You check out the copy I left with you yet, Bo’sun?)
Nice ceremony, fair dinner, fabulous desert. (Really fabulous desert. Wow, that desert. I mean…oh, sorry…) Of the 93 nominated books, I’d read three of them. All the cheering, clapping, whoo-hooing…I felt a clamor starting in my head, what was I doing here?
I remember feeling this way last year in DC. An acute attack of imposter-itis. This time, it got worse, culminating back in the room while Scape and the Bo’sun changed from nice dresses to last-night-bar comfies… I broke down in tears.
Tried not to! Lost that fight.
Tried to explain to my roomies how out of place and awkward I felt during and after the RITAS. Bo’sun chatted up her editor friend; Scape her editor friend. (Both have my book in their in-boxes…leaving me as the deer-in-headlight struck super boob. What to say that wouldn’t sound like pleading…)
In reaction to my tears and words, Scape spouts off, “All my fault, I should have…” I smacked her on the back of the head. (When I nicknamed her Scapegoat I had no idea how appropriate this name was! I was just trying to poke at how pretty and nice she was…you know how it is, I was poking at her…)
“This isn’t about you, twit, it’s about me. And the haunting presence of the lurking imposter.”
“You have an agent…why do you feel like you don’t belong here?” Bo’sun, queen of the obvious and practical, states.
Did I claim to understand or view my outburst as rational?
(I washed my face, took a pill and enjoyed the rest of the evening…don’t worry.)
Nope, just my insecurities rising from four days of non-stop ‘doing’…the specter of PMS, distance from home and excessive heat/humidity. (Like my excuses? Wish they’d worked.) I actually am a confident writer. I love my stories. This isn’t about the writing skills. If anything, it’s about the sense of crashing a party I though was open to everyone…and feeling like a blue skinned alien at a Regency cotillion. (Though Stitch would probably take it all in stride. He’s my new role model.) (Imagine him dressed as a duke…he was nice as Elvis…)
Perhaps a confidence anxiety attack? PTSD stemming from an adolescent event I don’t remember when I was made to feel as outside an outsider can be?
I honestly don’t know!
There is the lurking sense that this is all some cosmic joke and I am a total imposter…on the verge of having the rug ripped from beneath my feet…
Absolutly, frickin’ terrifying place to be…
Hence, the sacrifice of many Double Stuffed Flaming Twinkies to hold back the dark…
Luckily, Stitch is visiting and saw through the whole thing…
Sigh. It couldn’t be that easy…
I may keep him around for awhile…
Anyone else know this masked shadow at your back? Any advice? Rituals? Banishing spells?
Anyone want to take best on who is gonna win – The Undead Monkey or Stitch? ;-)
(I insist on some fun for Friday, despite my angst attack!)
Labels: Loader's Logic (2nd Chance)