Update on Sandra Tuttle

Well I haven't been here in quite awhile have I?

I got a new job that requires quite a bit of my time, I was in my sister's wedding in another state, I was the copy writer/web designer for a local political candidate and I moved (which required painting 5 rooms of the house after a full day of work) Yeah, I've been busy.

I'm hoping that things have settled down enough in my life to allow me to get back to blogging and more importantly writing.

About writing: I've made an executive decision about Book 1 of the Just Sam series. I've decided to scrap it and completely rewrite the thing from scratch. Why? I write differently than I did two years ago. My voice has changed and editing the piece is making it worse not better. So, when life settles down and I get back to writing... I'll be looking at a blank page. Wish me luck!

Inspiration: the elusive mistress *snort*

Inspiration:

Where can it come from?

To be honest, just about anywhere, it really depends upon your frame of mind at the time.

For instance, right now, I’m feeling pretty crappy. I’ve got a lot of decisions I need to make, none of which are fun, and am feeling a bit stuck in a place I don’t want to be stuck in. I know I have to make hard decisions that will make me feel crappy, but ultimately, will be better for me in the long run. I’ve got a headache, a tummy ache and I’m generally moody… and yet, here I am blogging about inspiration of all things!!!

Basically, inspiration can come from your hardships. That’s where I’m at right now. I’m feeling a little out of control of my life, and a little too in control of my life at the same time, if you know what I mean. I’m out of control because I can’t help but feel what I’m feeling (and I don’t like it), but I know I’m too in control because I have a decision to make that will change things… and when it’s all said and done, I will only have myself to blame if it doesn’t work out well. So here, I am, feeling like a chewed up piece of gum on a homeless guy’s shoe and yet, I’m talking about how other people can find ideas. I’m turning my bad time into, hopefully, someone else’s good time… or even an okay time would be fine with me ;)

Anyway, back to the topic at hand, because I really didn’t want to blog about how crappy of a night I’m having.

How did I decide to write this blog? That’d be inspiration right? Well, first of all, I was bound and determined to get out of my bad mood. So I thought about all the things I like to do and where I’ve found a sense of peace before. I read a book and took a bath, but the book ended—too soon for my tastes—and not necessarily on a good note. So bad mood—still there. And the book really ruined my bath, although normally they calm me down. However, the bath was probably not a good option because our house was pretty hot and no one wants to take a hot bath when they are already hot. So basically, the bath idea and book idea… yeah not good for me tonight.

However, that doesn’t mean that they will forever not work for me—it just means that tonight I’ll have to work a little bit harder to get my mind off my problems.

Next I thought about giving my mom a big hug and just letting her hold me and tell me everything will be fine, and how strong of a woman I am. (Although, yeah, inside every strong woman is a daughter who sometimes just needs a hug from her mom) But when I got out of the bath, she was asleep. No big surprise really, it was after midnight. I tried to talk to my dad, but he’d fallen asleep in the chair and wasn’t much help in his groggy state.

Okay then, what next? Well I tried to journal my feelings. Normally this brings up a whole bunch of emotional shit I don’t want to deal with, but hey, I was feeling kinda desperate and maybe I needed a little emotional kick in the pants, right? So I journaled about how I was feeling, and I totally expected shit to come out sideways, or to come upon some revelation that would make me feel better. It didn’t work. I did however, journal about how being outside helps me clear my head and how normally being near water helps as well. But the bath didn’t work and it was after midnight. So where was I supposed to go? I had no idea. I figured I needed to clear my head though, so I turned off the fan in my room and listened to the crickets outside. It was real nice at first, until an insane humming noise filled my ear. Somewhere, in my room was a mosquito. Shit, it was warm enough for them to be outside as well.

I tried swatting the mosquito but it, being a cunning fellow, clearly high evolved, stayed near the ceiling where I couldn’t easily reach it.

Giving up on the mosquito, I bundled up (even though it was warm outside, I didn’t want to be eaten alive by mosquitoes) and went outside. I looked up at the sky, but the trees here are pretty big and in order to see the sky you have to look straight up. I was getting a stiff neck (to go along with my head ache, sore tummy and tired eyes) so I laid down on the cement of the driveway and just stared at the sky. It didn’t seem to help at first, but eventually the coldness of the cement seeped through my ass, which then turned numb and in turn helped to numb the upset tummy.

I took this opportunity to think about things I could do that would help me feel better. What I needed ladies and gentleman, was inspiration.

Aha! YES! Her ranting blog does have a purpose!

And the fact that I needed inspiration led me to my own inspiration. Perhaps I would write a blog about inspiration and where to find it. I quickly pushed that idea aside and figured it’d be dumb. Then I thought that I should really look at the job section in the newspaper today since I am unhappy with my current employment situation. I figured after that, I could write my goals down and perhaps have a working outline of what I need to do to achieve my goals. Yes, that sounded much more like what I needed to do. So I went inside, grabbed the job section and opened it up. Five minutes later I closed it in frustration. I was clearly over qualified and under qualified for everything. Such is the life of a person with a Bachelor’s degree in something as unpractical as Film Production.

Job seeking made me so frustrated that writing the whole goals thing flew out the window, which left me with one more idea… get my laptop back out and see if anyone is online to chat with.

Alas, there was no one and that left me with blogging about inspiration. In reality, this blog was the best thing I could’ve done for myself right now. Sure my tummy still isn’t feeling the greatest, but I’m blogging, that is something productive. It involves writing… something I need to do more of. It is in a round about way letting me sort out some of my troubles—which is always helpful. It also could help other people.

Inspiration comes from anywhere—you simply have to know where to look, look many places, don’t dismiss anything and let life take you where it may.

You can be inspired in places like me—alone and quiet. Some people like busy places or like to people watch. Some people need to meditate and take from their dreams. Some people smoke pot or take other hallucinogenic drugs. HA! (I do not recommend that)

Basically, anyone can be inspired in any place, but inspiration isn’t enough. Even if you are really inspired it takes a little work. Also, if you are just a little inspired, it takes a lot of work, but that doesn’t make the product any less than the highly inspired one. Anything worth having takes work.

Look at me, I searched high and low for a solution today and nothing worked. What finally worked, was a solution I wasn’t too happy about… blogging about something as cliché as inspiration and how to get it. But alas, it worked out for me and if you read this far, perhaps it’ll work out for you too… because getting this far in my rant shows that you are willing to put in the little extra effort to finish something. Either that or you are really bored, but I prefer to think the former.

This is me seeking inspiration today...

Conquering Self Doubt

Sometimes I just have to trust myself.

There are times when I'm feeling down on myself and that nothing I write is worth the scrap paper it's printed on.

As you can imagine, that mood doesn't help me write one bit. Those are the negative creeping thoughts that are detrimental to my writing.

When those thoughts pop up, I've realized that I need to to take a break and do something completely unrelated to writing. Then, I need to come back at a time when my thoughts are clear and reread something I've written that I haven't touched in awhile.

I did this today. I reread the last bit I wrote of book 2 of my Just Sam series. I am completely immersed in my world and have a big grin on my face. Oh how I adore Samantha and her world. I am quite amazed with myself and my writing.

I pray this doesn't come off as conceited, because it isn't meant to--part of me feels like I didn't even write the parts I read, but I love them even more than I did in the first place. I know I wrote it so maybe I'm not supposed to say how much I like it, but I truly do. I am proud of my accomplishment. I love Sam's world. I hope that I can continue to do the world justice. If my immersion into the world says anything, it says I'm on the right track.

I need to trust that I write for a reason. That all of those countless hours are not for nothing. I am a decent writer--at least of the sort of story I like to read. When doubts creep in, I need to remember days like today--days where I am in love with my characters all over again.

Re Enchant Yourself

7:35 pm Saturday evening. I'm stuck at work, but no one is currently bothering me and I hear thunder--I'm content for now. Except I as soon as I typed that, I developed a case of the hiccups. Contentment doesn't last long does it? At least not as one ages.

Now, I know 27 isn't exactly ancient, but it'd old enough to remember being young and longing for it.

Normally I am not the type of person who comes back from an inspirational training seminar all geeked up to take over the world. I listen, I say my piece, I glean what information I need and I implement it where I deem necessary. However, during this customer service training session the other day, the gentleman on the video said something that struck a chord within me. He said that we need to re enchant ourselves with life. We need to become enchanted like we were as children, when everything was new and different and wonderful.

A lot of the time I feel enchanted with life. I imagine this is what makes me a writer--to see the enchantment in the ordinary. However, sometimes I feel it makes me seem naive or immature. In the long run, seeming that way to a few people isn't a big deal, but what does that say about our society? We can't be excited by life or we come off like we have a mental illness? Only "simple" people smile all the time because they don't know any better? Or on the same hand, only disillusioned people like very religious people smile like that or have manners like that because something is wrong with them.

Why can't an ordinary person be happy, polite, see wonder in the world and still be considered intelligent? Sure there are problems in the world, but there is a lot that is right as well... sometimes you may have to look a little bit harder, but it's there.

Or this even.. to believe in something that is a little extraordinary, like ghosts or aliens--or in perpetual motion, or time travel. Don't we want people to believe in things a little out there? Isn't that how we ended up with all of current technology? Sending pictures or voices through the air and having them arrive mere seconds later thousands of miles away? Sounds like magic to me. Don't we want people to think outside of the box?

If so, then why does our society and our schools encourage disenchantment with life? Why do we encourage the status-quo? Why do we limit the creativity of our youth in order for them to fit in? Is what other people think about us so important that we limit what our futures could hold?

Brand New Chapter One

Okie dokie, here's the scoop. Something is wrong with my computer and I am not able to upate my main website www.sandratuttle.com Luckily, my blogger is web based and works beautifully. So instead of putting my book excerpt on my website as per normal, I am blogging it.

Now, we know why as far as location is concerned, but not why the blasted thing was written in the first place. I have been rewriting book 1, Inevitable of the Just Sam series. The process is extremely slow going but any progress is good right?

So, was the first version of chapter 1 bad? No, not at all, but upon completeing the rough draft and a few edits of the books, I decided my book needed a little more focus on certain issues. I also decided that Samantha needed a little more maturity than what I had written before. Also, the initial first scene of the book, while funny to me, had little to do with the rest of the book. A rewrite ensued and here is the result.

Let me know what you think...

Chapter 1:

Talking Heads
“Burning Down the House”


Friday, January 13th

Crime doesn’t pay. Everyone knows that. It’s a good thing I wasn’t doing this for the money.
Eyes squeezed shut, I turned the knob to the back door, the only thing between me and phase one of my criminal career, when I was interrupted by a young happy voice.

“Hey Samantha, kick some ass… uh… butt for me tonight.” Summer’s voice rang clear and bubbly until her swearing snafu, then her cheeks turned pink and her downcast face muffled the rest of my ten year old step daughter’s statement.

I released the doorknob and turned around with a forced smile on my face. The swearing was probably my fault; lord knows I can never keep it under control. It took Summer and I a long time to be at ease with one another. I didn’t want to ruin our relationship by making a big deal out of her swearing just because of my conscience. I forced my smile even bigger and winked at her like the conspirator she knew me to be.

Summer’s mouth opened in a little “O” shape of surprise before her stick straight blonde hair flew around her head in a perfect arc as she sliced her hand in the air with a “Hiii-ya!” She proceeded to jump kick our mustard yellow fridge, a relic from the seventies. The floor of our trailer bounced despite her slight weight. Too many kung fu movies for that girl.

Normally I felt guilty going to the martial arts dojo every Friday. I mean, what kind of step mother needs to beat people up once a week to stay sane? For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an itch to do battle and sparring in a controlled environment was preferable to my teenage street fighting. First swearing and then beating people up… how many more items could I check on the list of bad things mothers do? Even still, I would’ve preferred a normal level of guilt to the crushing weight I felt now. At least sparring was legal. My plan tonight was illegal in every way I could think of—and yet it needed to be done.

I had to break into my boss’s office.

I forced the thought from my mind and faced the door again. The door represented the threshold of my black and white world and the grayish one on the other side. Surely doing something technically “illegal” wasn’t always bad. I grabbed the doorknob and turned, but chickened out at the last moment. I stopped turning the knob and tilted my head over my shoulder. “Okay, I’m really leaving now. Luke, make sure you keep an eye on Summer.”

All I got in return was a “Yeah, yeah” and a muffled, “Leave already.”

Luke, my husband, played drums as a hobby, one he would’ve liked to turn into a career until his ex died and he got “saddled” with Summer. The loud noise of concerts affected his hearing and caused him to talk louder than most people. He knew this of course, and didn’t seem to care that I could hear his rude remarks.

Before I could let his behavior affect my confidence any more than it had over the years, I wrenched the knob and stepped over the threshold. Some things, even illegal things, are easier than facing the mistakes we’ve already made in our own life. I slammed the door behind me. It rebounded back open and hit my ass. I grabbed the outside handle and bumped the door with my hip until I heard the click.

The outside light popped on and I checked the air for a swarm of mosquitoes or love bugs. I relaxed when I remembered it was January and that even though Florida was warm in January, it wasn’t warm enough for the common pests to be out in force.

Summer’s smiling face appeared in the panes of glass in the window next to the door. Her sporadically toothed grin and floppy wave made me smile. She tapped her fingers in the familiar bum buda bum bum pattern. I bumped the heel of my hand on the door twice in answer, my final goodbye for the night.

The light winked out and I stood on the few wooden steps in darkness. I took a deep breath and tiptoed down the steps. I had secret dealings tonight. I may as well get used to being sneaky.

I fisted my hands and gritted my teeth. Before self doubt could trickle in, I jumped into my ’88 red Chevy Nova, started it with a roar—it needed a new muffler—and pulled out onto Green Swamp Way in the direction of my work—an archaeological dig site. Green Swamp Way was Lakeland, Florida’s answer to Rodeo drive, only for swamp buggy enthusiasts, hog hunters and bullfrog shiners instead of high end shoppers.

Dilapidated trailer after dilapidated trailer zoomed by my window as I sped down the straight road. Nice thing about Florida being flat—you could speed on almost any road. I let my lead foot off the gas pedal as I recalled where I was going and what I’d be doing once I got there.

Fortunately this archaeology job was only a few miles from my house. That would limit the amount of time I had to chicken out.

Unfortunately this archaeology job was only a few miles from my house. That would limit the amount of time I needed to mentally prepare myself for this. I’d never pulled a B&E before.

Pulled a B&E? When have I ever talked like that? Sure I dabbled on the wild side a bit in high school, but I hadn’t done anything illegal except get into physical fights with people who already wanted to scrap. Now I was referring to breaking and entering by some cool slang term, like it was perfectly acceptable?

Yeah, some great role model for Summer, I am.

Despite lifting my foot off the gas pedal, the dirt turnoff to the dig site came into view sooner than I would’ve liked. I slid onto the access road and flicked off my lights. I coasted past the first strand of cypress trees and stopped the car.

I took a deep breath, focused on my skewed reflection in the windshield and pretended that talking to oneself was normal.

“I have to do this, right?” the tentative part of me whispered.

The moral part of me answered, “There is no other way.” That part of my brain raged at the idea of breaking into anywhere, but agreed that Orson Naston, my former boss, the one who fired me earlier this morning, should not be able to get away with what he was doing.

I stared at the reflection of my white knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. “He’s the scum of the earth Sam, you have to do this! You have to break in. There’s no other option. There’s no telling what kind of horrors Orson has already performed on your artifact.”

My knuckles grew even whiter. He’d probably already taken the skull out of the protective case and breathed on it. All kinds of carbonized material would be on the skull by now. That’d fuck up my Radio Carbon 14 dating for sure. Not that it was my dating anymore.

Orson shouldn’t be able to sweep the archaeological finds under the carpet just so he can build yet another subdivision. As the contractor, he hired me as an archaeologist to do a cursory inspection and clear his site of being of any historical importance, except his site couldn’t be cleared. I’d found something, a big something in fact, something that no one else has ever found. The skull of an ancient breed of wolf that never before existed in the historical record, and certainly wouldn’t be found in a strata, or dirt layer, from when Florida was underwater.

That sounds a lot cooler than it is. I’ve found several somethings in my short career that no one else has ever found, and those somethings are exactly the reason my career is so short and I’d been forced to take Orson’s stupid job. Clearing a site for a slimy construction contractor is not what most archaeologists dream of doing, but no respectable archaeologist would include me on a dig. Apparently I’m a “loose cannon and a shoddy archaeologist prone to fantastical ideas.” In reality I’m an excellent archaeologist who is not afraid of the truth. It’s just that my finds didn’t fit into the accepted theories of archaeology and that challenged other archaeologists. That’s when I learned that threatened academics are some of the scariest mother fuckers out there.

Yesterday I reported my find to my boss, Orson, via his preferred method, a sticky note, and today, my day off, he fired me, before I’d been able to secure my artifact and send it off to the lab to be dated. My artifact was in the hands of a morally corrupt buffoon who had no training in archaeology whatsoever. What did he, a construction contractor, think to do with my artifact?

He doesn’t want any artifacts to be found on his land or he won’t be able to develop it. He would destroy the skull and any evidence of historical importance. I had to recover it before he did any permanent damage. If that involved B&E then so be it. Orson was practically putting a gun to my head and making me perform criminal acts, right? Any sane person would surely understand that. Well, any archaeologist would at least.

What kind of ass backward dickweed would fire an archaeologist before she could find out the age of her newest find? Not a very smart one, I’ll tell you that much. It took me weeks of careful extraction to relieve my artifact from the swamp soil. If Orson so much as looked at my artifact askance, I couldn’t be held responsible for what I’d do. I had to save my artifact, my skull, from him.

Finally resolved in my decision, I drove down the twisting driveway with my headlights off. I don’t know why I did this, my barely hanging in there muffler still sounded like a rhino on the rampage, but the lights, well surely someone would see the lights. About a quarter of a mile away from the archaeological dig, I put the car in neutral and coasted. Although, considering the site was close to being in the middle of a Florida swamp, the car didn’t make it very far down the muddy driveway on its own. One hundred feet later and not nearly close enough to my destination as I would’ve liked, I hopped out of my car.

“Mother fucker,” I mumbled through gritted teeth.

Why hadn’t I thought to change my clothes? My aqua baby girl tee, pale skin and light blue jeans glowed in the light of the almost full moon. My long red hair no doubt flared like a homing beacon. Lord knows I have plenty of black clothes in my wardrobe. Why the hell hadn’t I thought to put some on?

Because, my little inner voice told me, you weren’t thinking clearly at all. You were simply enraged about being fired and you acted rashly. Imagine that. You, of all people doing something dangerous. Isn’t that how you landed in this situation in the first place? Whisking off into parts unknown to relieve the earth of strange things that would’ve been better off left there? Eagerly reporting your findings without thought to how they would be received? Being shunned from the world of academia and instead of tucking your tail and sucking it up, what did you do? You donned your silly super hero cape of truth and pontificated to well known experts on how they should do their jobs.

I squeezed my fist tight and the jolt of pain from my fingernails piercing my skin helped me tune out the facetious voice in my head and forge ahead. Trudging through the mud became difficult.

I knew this well, I’d trudged through the muck every day, save one day a week off, for the past six months.

I ground my teeth to prevent the string of expletives from escaping my mouth. It stormed earlier today and the muddy ground was wet and littered with twigs, making for uneven footing. I lifted my shoed foot from the muck with a sucking noise and headed toward the small work trailer on the other side of the bend. Peeking through the gaps in the cypress trees I saw lights shining from inside the windows of the aged metal trailer. I jumped into a strand of trees between me and remaining thirty feet to the trailer.

Shit. Orson had no reason to work late. Hell, the asswipe hardly worked at all. Why would he be here? In front of the decrepit temporary structure sat Orson’s shiny black BMW and despite the mud splatters around the wheel wells the car looked amazing. Amazing and ill fitting with the surroundings. Really, who drove a BMW into a swamp?

I tried to tiptoe through the muck to avoid the sucking noise and alerting my presence to whomever occupied the building, but putting all of the weight on a small portion of my body turned out to be a mistake. My foot sunk into the mud to my ankle. I tugged slightly and tried to release the suction but no amount of slight pressure would remove my foot. I braced my hands against a live oak tree, and tugged hard. The thwup of my foot releasing from the suctioned mud rang loud and clear, silencing any and all noise made in the swamp. No buzz of large scary insects. No bellowing or hissing of alligators. No croaking of bullfrogs. Just silence.

All I could hear was my heart pumping and my lungs breathing in the moist swamp smell, both rich and disgusting in scent. Rain in the north smelled like worms to me. Rain in the south, in the swampy south, smelled like unmentionable things even the worst of landfills couldn’t hope to duplicate.

As soon as I thought it was safe to move again, the door to the trailer opened. I peeked around the huge live oak tree. Luckily, most of the trees had Spanish moss dangling around, making it much easier for me to see the person in the doorway than for them to see me, but that didn’t stop my heart from beating a mile a minute like a cornered rabbit.

My lungs took in enough air to get me through an explanation if caught by Orson, but the air rushed out as I viewed the silhouette in the doorway. Orson’s frame towered over everyone in the way that church spires tower over cities—all tall and spindly, but the male frame in the doorway stood at a normal height and filled out his clothes nicely.

Shit. Someone else occupied the office? I hadn’t planned on anyone being there, but an unknown entity was exactly that, unknown. Should I walk up and pretend like I’m supposed to be there? After all, I was the presiding archaeologist on this dig, I had more of a right to be there than this schmuck. I stepped around the tree with my shoulders back and resolve cemented, only to see a second man with a familiar willowy stature step into the doorway.

Fuck. Maybe I won’t be playing it cool. I stepped back behind the tree, but kept my eyes peering over the edge.

“It’s probably just a rabbit.” Orson’s low dulcet tone, contrary to his personality, flowed over the heavy air.

His voice, his damned voice, was the reason I took the job in the first place. Surely someone with a voice that nice over the phone would be delightful to work for? Oh, how wrong I was.

“Naston, you’ve never really embraced your senses. It doesn’t smell like a rabbit. Why I bothered to turn you, I’ll never know.”

Smell? Are they talking about me? They can smell me? Over the swamp must? What the fuck!

“You shouldn’t be here,” said a new voice from directly behind me.

I flung my body around and flattened it against the tree. In front of me stood a man dressed head to foot in black. His button down shirt had the first few buttons open and his dress pants drew a long straight line to his shiny shoes. Shiny shoes? In the swamp? I glanced around for foot prints but didn’t see any. The tall Nordic looking man with long blond hair, chilly blue green eyes and perfect features looked like something off the cover of a bodice ripper. His good looks were intimidating and had an air of danger to them, that, damn him, I responded to in an unusual way—speechlessness.

“You need to leave.”

His polished voice made it even more difficult to speak, but I swallowed my awe and replaced it with anger. Where the hell had this guy come from?

“Maybe you should leave,” I tossed back.

I’m not afraid of a one on one confrontation. I’ve been trained to not only defend myself, but to go on the offensive when needed. No hot pampered model was going to frighten me with his good looks. Not doubt the muscles were all for show and the 6’4 behemoth didn’t know what to do with them. I may be a curvy 5’4 but what muscles I had, I knew how to use. I stepped away from the tree and squared my shoulders. The branches above swayed, letting moonlight breech their defenses.

Some sort of recognition flashed in his eyes.

Ahh good, he identified me as a threat.

“It can’t be. It’s too early yet.” His soft voice seemed more for himself than for me.

A creak directly behind me caused me to whirl around. The well built man descended the few rickety stairs of the trailer. Surely the noise sounded a lot closer than that? I shook off the eerie feeling. Fight or flight mode always made my senses more aware.

I watched with a keen eye, flicking back and forth between the well built man stalking closer to me, Orson hovering in the doorway and keeping an ear out of the Nordic model behind me.

When my eyes flicked to the doorway yet another dude stepped in the doorway. What the fuck, are we tailgating at the local archaeological dig or what? This guy had shoulder length hair and was nearly as tall as Orson, but slightly more muscular. I ceased noticing his body when he turned sideways and I could discern what he was holding from his silhouette.

“Oh no, he didn’t.” I stepped out from the tree and headed straight for the guy. He held my skull, my lovely new artifact in his hands. No protective case shielded it from rogue carbon particles that may affect the Radio Carbon 14 dating that still needed to be done. He was corrupting my artifact. I charged at him with more vigor.

I hadn’t made it out of the strand of trees when a large steely hand clamped my shoulder and held me in place, causing me to focus on a more pressing matter than my livelihood. On instinct, I grabbed the Nordic dude’s hand, twisted my body around to face him and made to toss him over my shoulder but he didn’t budge, not one single centimeter. He stood standing perfectly still in the mud without so much as a speck of dirt anywhere, not even on his shiny black dress shoes. That’s when I knew I was in trouble with this guy. He had muscle, knew how to use it and despite this being my domain for the last six months, somehow he knew the terrain better than I. A lot of determining how to fight is the terrain. One would fight different in rocky terrain than one would on a sandy beach. I worked on this muddy earth almost every day for the past half a year and never managed to come home clean, even on dry days. This wet day proved to be difficult for me, but this guy somehow mastered the art of walking in muck. I’d been outsmarted and out gunned. It pissed me off to no end. I should’ve read the situation better.

I stared into his eyes and didn’t blink. I sized him up as I would any opponent. He didn’t look away or even flinch at my unyielding stare. He just stood there as if he’d been waiting his whole life for me to inspect him.

A smile tugged the corner of my mouth. This guy knew how to be a worthy opponent. He had all the advantages, mass, terrain, hell even disorienting good looks.

A twig snapped behind me. I tried to turn but the hand of iron on my shoulder stopped me. A breeze suddenly whipped past me and swept around the tree in an unnatural way that had chills running up my spine.

I craned my neck as much as I could, but I still couldn’t see anything of worth. Twigs snapped behind me again, but now they were traveling away from me.

The hand on my shoulder pushed me up against a tree, forcing my head to snap back around to face him. The Nordic model leaned over me and whispered, “You need to leave here.” His hand on my shoulder flexed. “Now.”

He gripped my other shoulder as well and leaned closer. “You aren’t safe here.”

His pupils, wide open in the dark widened even further to encompass the majority of his irises.

The effect startled me, making me feel like I wasn’t safe here. I’d never felt so small and insignificant, being between this tall man and the live oak tree had little to do with it. What I saw in his eyes made me feel small. This man knew things I’d never know. He looked wise and like he wanted to protect me. For the first time in my life that I could remember, I wanted to be the protected instead of the protector.

That alone clued me in that something was seriously wrong. If I felt like I needed protecting, then I did. I’d never felt that before. I wasn’t safe here. Time to go. I wiggled against the tree and shrugged my shoulders but his hands wouldn’t release me. I fought down the urge to use physical force and opened my mouth instead. “How can I go if you won’t let me?”

He let go as if my body were molten and looked away from me. “Go.”

I stumbled over my muddy feet but caught myself in time to run around the side of the tree. I turned my head each way to check that the way was clear. My eyes latched onto the figure in the doorway of the trailer. The sight of the long haired man holding my skull up to the light to examine it with Orson heated my blood. I paused for just a minute for one last look at the skull.

A breeze blew by, chilling me to the bone again. Time to get going. I took a step like normal, but the mud took advantage of the moment I stood still and started eating up my feet. Tripping, I fell to my knees with a loud squish. All noise in the swamp stopped.

The Nordic model suddenly stood in front of me and grabbed me by the elbow. He lifted me up.

The silence of the night shattered when a rustling noise came from a few yards away. The firm hand on my elbow held me still. He surveyed the area like something being hunted, or perhaps like the hunter himself.

Straight in front of us, about twenty feet away, a bush parted and the largest animal I’d ever seen in the wild stalked out. A mother fucking wolf, larger than a Great Dane, stood still, eyes focused on us and hackles raised.

“Go now, Samantha.” The model set me to his side and pushed a little to help my inertia. I put one foot in front of the other as fast as I could, but not nearly as fast as he did. In a blur of motion he ran straight at the wolf and they disappeared into the brush.

My stomach clenched at the mournful sound of the howl echoing through the night, but I pushed it aside and kept running. I had to keep running. This shit was too weird for words.

“There are no wolves in Florida.” I kept repeating the line, as if somehow that would make what I saw less real.

One leg after another, I ran, ignoring the loud sucking noises of the mud. Globs of mud flew behind me. I tripped on a live oak root and feel knee deep into the muck.

A menacing growl flowed out of the bushes behind me. I hauled my ass up and covered the ground with a quickness. My lungs burned and my muscles threatened to give out, but I ignored them. Whatever the hell happened at this place tonight, I would not be a part of it. I just wanted to go home and forget about all of it. Hell, forget about the last six months.

I finally reached my car and fumbled with my keys as I opened the door. I jumped in, jabbed the key into the ignition and started my baby up with a roar. Slamming the car into drive, I spun the tires out and sped along the muddy drive. I flicked my lights on, no sense in hiding anymore. Now the name of the game was to get out alive.

I swerved around bends and floored the Nova as fast as she would go. About a hundred yards from the main road something big, black and gray darted out in front of the headlights.

A wolf faced me, throwing out any notion I had of my earlier vision being incorrect. In a second of suspended time my eyes zoomed into the wolf’s frosty blue ones. My stomach tried forcing its way out of my bellybutton to get at the wolf. My core wanted to be there, inside the animal. I blinked and felt like I got kicked in the gut.

Thrown back into real time I grappled with the steering wheel. I slammed on the brakes but the mud wouldn’t let my tires find purchase. The car flew forward and I swerved to miss the wolf that was no longer there. A live oak materialized in front of me. The front end of my little car folded in on itself as it connected with the stubborn wood. Thrown forward, my nose connected with the steeling wheel. My head exploded in pain with a lightning flash. Stunned momentarily from the pain, all I saw was the steering column getting closer and closer until I saw nothing…

and heard nothing…

and finally felt nothing.

Schmuckdom

Of course, as soon as I say that I won’t be blogging for awhile because life is getting in the way, I want to blog. I told my writers group that I’d be on hiatus for awhile, and what happens? I have a renewed interest in getting back into the swing of things.

Life is a bitch… and the rest of the saying goes… and then you die. But the saying should go, Life is a bitch, so you try to adjust to its bitchiness, but then it goes and acts all nice, and then you come off looking like a schmuck.

Well Sandra Tuttle, welcome to schmuckdom.

I am not going to say that I will be an awesome blogger and write amazing things immediately, but I will do what I can… which I guess it what I’ve been doing all along.

I feel the need to make goals for myself, but then again, I never feel the need to reevaluate those goals. Reevaluating feels like quitting to me, and I’m not a quitter. I think I just need to have a better mindset about goals. Because really… what good is setting a goal if you can’t reach it at the moment… or if it isn’t realistic based on your life at the moment? Isn’t it better to make small steps toward the bigger goal? Isn’t better to take manageable bites so you can chew and swallow properly without choking on your own self important lofty goals? I mean really people…who… besides porn stars… likes to choke?

Not me.

But this guy might…

This blog will seem lame and past due...

...because it is.

This blog is here to tell you that I'll be taking a break from blogging.

Life has done what is does best--whatever the hell it wants to and what it wants is to interfere with my writing.

I am not sad--well I am a little sad--I love to write, and I love to read, but life is not letting me make enough time for either. Mostly I am not sad though. Life is making me live it--and without living life, I would have nothing to write about. So prepare yourselves. When I come back, hopefully it will be with force and a renewed sense of self and purpose.

Til then... adieu!

-ST

A seed of an idea wormed its way into my rotten apple of a brain.

This may be a passing phase, or just a bit of impractical whimsy on my part, but I am considering going back to school to get an MFA in Creative Writing.

I don't know whether this training would actually help me get published, hone my craft or just be a waste of money but the prospect is quite exciting to me at the moment.

I loved being in school. I love learning period. If I had the time and money I'd probably get a Bachelors Degree in every subject. I suppose this trait is good for a writer. If you are supposed to write what you know, then the more you know, the more you can write. On the flipside, school doesn't give you real world experience, and life experience makes for a good writer as well. Damn, have I just talked myself out of going back to school? Naw... not really.

I'm looking into a distance learning program, which essentially means you do most of the writing from your house on your own time. You have a mentor who gives you assignments, deadlines and critiques your work--much like that of an editor. This prepares us budding writers for what it will be like when we are stellar professionals--having to be self motivated and yet still make deadlines while life throws curveballs at us.

I'm also adopting a mantra from my aunt, who, coincidentally, is also a writer. When faced with a decision regarding time management, she simply says to herself "What would a writer do?" Would a writer take a break to refuel the creative juices? Would a writer plow through the hardship and conquer the foe of self doubt? Would a writer go run errands instead of writing?

I need more focus with my writing. My habits are a little willy nilly at the moment. I do what i can when I want to, but I haven't had the focus I'd like. Perhaps asking What would a writer do? will help me put things into perspective.

So that's what's new with me today. I'm thinking about my future as a writer and what I can do to improve myself. I'm sure you all have ideas on how to improve myself, but hold off on the criticism. Praise is welcome 24-7 however. :)

Finally a new blog from Sandra!

Okay, it's been about a month and a half since I last posted. Shame on me.

Y'all probably want an update huh?

You don't?

You completely forgot who I am?

Oh, you know who I am and don't care?

Well, shit, that's a blow to the ego.

Ya, know what? Screw you, I'm going to blog an update regardless of you and your poor taste. I rock. I know I do, my mom tells me so all the time. ;)

Seriously though, life is progressing. Not as fast as I'd like it to, but I have the impatience gene, so I can't possibly be to blame.

I have two part time jobs and a few prospects on the horizon. Wish me luck with those. I am trying to get out a bit more. I've rekindled a few friendships, but not as many as I would like.

I'd love to meet new people, but I find that my friend making skills peaked in college then fell by the wayside? Anyone else feel that way? It felt relatively easy to make friends in college. For the most part we were all in the same boat--in the land of uncertainty, about our selves, our futures, our lots in life.

I'm 27 and still feel like I dwell in that unsure place. I know I'm coming off of a divorce and a major life change and I should probably be patient and wait for things to work out... and eventually that will happen, but until then I'm going to bitch about you, and you lovely reader get to read about it. Damn, no wonder you didn't miss my blogs, I'm quite the dictator aren't I?

All right, avid readers, in the span of time it took me to write this I remembered a preview for a new show I saw on TV. I found a clip online, watched it and fell in love. It deals with life as a quarter lifer (aged 25, yes I know I'm 27, but I'm a later bloomer, k?) So far it stars a writer and two budding film makers. This is totally my life right? YES! I love it. It is made by the same people who did My So Called Life, which was absolutely what my so called like was like as a teenager as well. I haven't been this excited by anything in a long time.

Here's the clip. Watch it. Love it. Let me know about it.

Quarterlife: